■! 


CHRONICLES 


/ fy. 


THE  CANONGATE. 


COMPLETE  IN  TWO  VOLUMES. 


BY  TIIE  AUTHOR  OF  “ WAVERLEY,”  See.  See. 


SIC  1TUR  AD  ASTRA, 

Motto  of  the  Canongate  Anns. 


Uol.  K. 


WAVERLEY  NOVELS.  39. 


BOSTON  : 

SAMUEL  H.  PARKER,  NO.  164,  WASHINGTON-STREET. 


1828. 


% 


Waverley-Press — Boston. 


INTRODUCTION. 


1/,  ) 


All  who  are  acquainted  with  the  early  history  of  the 
Italian  stage  are  aware,  that  Arlechino  is  not,  in  his  orig- 
inal conception,  a mere  worker  of  marvels  with  his  wood- 
en sword,  a jumper  into  and  out  of  windows,  as  upon  our 
theatre,  but,  as  his  party-coloured  jacket  implies,  a buf- 
foon or  clown,  whose  mouth,  far  from  being  eternally 
closed  as  amongst  us,  is  filled,  like  that  of  Touchstone, 
with  quips,  and  cranks,  and  witty  devices,  very  often  de- 
livered extempore.  It  is  not  easy  to  guess  how  he  became 
possessed  of  his  black  vizard,  which  was  anciently  made 
in  the  resemblance  of  the  face  of  a cat ; but  it  seems  that 
the  mask  was  essential  to  the  performance  of  the  character, 
as  will  appear  from  the  following  theatrical  anecdote  : — 
An  actor  on  the  Italian  stage  permitted  at  the  Foire  du 
St.  Germain,  in  Paris,  was  renowned  for  the  wild,  ven- 
turous, and  extravagant  wit,  the  brilliant  sallies  and  fortu- 
nate repartees,  with  which  he  prodigally  seasoned  the 
character  of  the  party-coloured  jester.  Some  critics, 
whose ' good  will  towards  a favourite  actor  was  stronger 
than  their  judgment,  took  occasion  to  remonstrate  with 
the  successful  performer  on  the  subject  of  the  grotesque 
vizard.  They  went  wilily  to  their  purpose,  observing 
that  his  classical  and  attic  wit,  his  delicate  vein  of  humour, 
his  happy  turn  for  dialogue,  was  rendered  burlesque  and 
ludicrous  by  this  unmeaning  and  bizarre  disguise,  and 
that  those  attributes  would  become  far  more  impressive, 
if  aided  by  the  spirit  of  his  eye  and  the  expression  of  his 
natural  features.  The  actor’s  vanity  was  easily  so  far 
engaged  as  to  induce  him  to  make  the  experiment.  He 
played  Harlequin  barefaced,  but  was  considered  on  all 
hands  as  having  made  a total  failure.  He  had  lost  the 


4 


INTRODUCTION. 


audacity  which  a sense  of  incognito  bestowed,  and  with  it 
all  the  reckless  play  of  raillery  which  gave  vivacity  to  his 
original  acting.  He  cursed  his  advisers,  and  resumed  his 
grotesque  vizard  ; but,  it  is  said,  without  ever  being  able 
to  regain  the  careless  and  successful  levity  which  the 
consciousness  of  the  disguise  had  formerly  bestowed. 

Perhaps  the  Author  of  Waverley  is  now  about  to  incur 
a risk  of  the  same  kind,  and  endanger  his  popularity  by 
having  laid  aside  his  incognito.  It  is  certainly  not  a vol- 
untary experiment,  like  that  of  Harlequin  ; for  it  was  my 
original  intention  never  to  have  avowed  these  works  dur- 
ing my  lifetime,  and  the  original  manuscripts  were  careful- 
ly preserved,  (though  by  the  care  of  others  rather  than 
mine,)  with  the  purpose  of  supplying  the  necessary 
evidence  of  the  truth  when  the  period  of  announcing  it 
should  arrive.  But  the  affairs  of  my  publishers  having 
unfortunately  passed  into  a management  different  from 
their  own,  I had  no  right  any  longer  to  rely  upon  secrecy 
in  that  quarter  ; and  thus  my  mask,  like  my  Aunt  Dinah’s, 
in  Tristram  Shandy,  having  begun  to  wax  a little  thread- 
bare about  the  chin,  it  became  time  to  lay  it  aside  with  a 
good  grace,  unless  I desired  it  should  fall  in  pieces  from 
my  face. 

Yet  I had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  choosing  the 
time  and  place  in  which  the  disclosure  was  finally  made  ; 
nor  was  there  any  concert  betwixt  my  learned  and  re- 
spected friend  Lord  Meadowbank  and  myself  upon  that 
occasion.  It  was,  as  the  reader  is  probably  aware,  upon 
the  23d  February  last,  at  a public  meeting,  called  for 
establishing  a professional  Theatrical  Fund  in  Edinburgh, 
that  the  communication  took  place.  Just  before  we  sat 
down  to  table,  Lord  Meadowbank  asked  me,  whether 
I was  still  anxious  to  preserve  my  incognito  on  the  subject 
of  what  was  called  the  Waverley  Novels  ? I did  not  im- 
mediately see  the  purpose  of  his  Lordship’s  question, 
although  I certainly  might  have  been  led  to  infer  it,  and 
replied,  that  the  secret  had  now  become  known  to  so 
many  people  that  I was  indifferent  on  the  subject.  Lord 
Meadowbank  was  thus  induced,  while  doing  me  the 


INTRODUCTION. 


5 


great  honour  of  proposing  my  health  to  the  meeting,  to 
say  something  on  the  subject  of  these  Novels,  so  strong]} 
connecting  them  with  me  as  the  author,  that,  by  remain- 
ing silent,  1 must  have  stood  convicted,  either  of  the 
actual  paternity,  or  of  the  still  greater  crime  of  being 
supposed  willing  to  receive  indirectly  praise  to  which  1 
had  no  just  title.  I thus  found  myself  suddenly  arid 
unexpectedly  placed  in  the  confessional,  and  had  only 
time  to  recollect  that  I had  been  guided  thither  by  a most 
friendly  hand,  and  could  not,  perhaps,  find  a better  public 
opportunity  to  lay  down  a disguise,  which  began  to  re- 
semble tfraf  of  a detected  masquerader. 

I had  therefore  the  task  of  avowing  myself,  to  the  nu- 
merous and  respectable  company  assembled,  as  the  soli 
and  unaided  author  of  these  Novels  of  Waverley,  the 
paternity  of  which  was  likely  atone  time  to  have  formed 
a controversy  of  some  celebrity.  I now  think  it  further 
necessary  to  say,  that  while  I take  on  myself  all  the  merits 
and  demerits  attending  these  compositions,  I am  bound  to 
acknowledge  with  gratitude,  hints  of  subjects  and  legends 
which  I have  received  from  various  quarters,  and  have 
occasionally  used  as  a foundation  of  my  fictitious  com- 
positions, or  woven  up  with  them  in  the  shape  of  episodes, 
l am  bound,  in  particular,  to  acknowledge  the  unremitting 
kindness  of  Mr.  Joseph  Train,  supervisor  of  excise  a: 
Dumfries,  to  whose  unwearied  industry  I have  been  in- 
debted fof  many  curious  traditions,  and  points  of  antiqua- 
rian interest.  It  was  Mr.  Train  who  recalled  to  my 
recollection  the  history  of  Old  Mortality,  although  I my  - 
self had  a personal  interview  with  that  celebrated  wan- 
derer so  far  back  as  about  1792,  when  I found  him  on 
his  usual  task.  He  was  then  engaged  in  repairing  the 
gravestones  of  the  Covenanters  who  had  died  while  im- 
prisoned in  the  Castle  of  Dunnottar,  to  which  many  of 
them  were  committed  prisoners  at  the  period  of  Argyle’s 
rising  ; their  place  of  confinement  is  still  called  the 
Whigs’  Vault.  Mr.  Train,  however,  procured  for  me  far 
more  extensive  a n for ; • i w.i  on  concerning  this  singular  person, 

1*  VOL,  I. 


6 


INTRODUCTION- 


whose  name  was  Patterson,  than  I had  been  able  to  acquire 
during  my  short  conversation  with  him.  He  was  (as  I may 
have  somewhere  already  stated,)  a native  of  the  parish 
of  Closeburn,  in  Dumfries-shire,  and  it  is  believed  that 
domestic  affliction,  as  well  as  devotional  feeling,  induced 
him  to  commence  the  wandering  mode  of  life,  which  lie 
pursued  for  a very  long  period.  It  is  more  than  twenty 
years  since  Robert  Patterson’s  death,  which  took  place 
on  the  high  road  near  Lockerby,  where  he  was  found 
exhausted  and  expiring.  The  white  pony,  the  compan- 
ion of  his  pilgrimage,  was  standing  by  the  side  of  its 
dying  master  ; the  whole*  furnishing  a scene  not  unfitted 
for  the  pencil.  These  particulars  I had  from  Mr.  Train. 

Another  debt,  which  I pay  most  willingly,  is  that  which 
I owe  to  an  unknown  correspondent  (a  lady),  who  favour- 
ed me  with  the  history  of  the  upright  and  high  principled 
female,  whom,  in  the  Heart  of  Mid-Lothian,  I have  termed 
Jeanie  Deans.  The  circumstance  of  her  refusing  to  save 
her  sister’s  life  by  an  act  of  perjury,  and  undertaking  a 
pilgrimage  to  London  to  obtain  her  pardon,  are  both  re- 
presented as  true  by  my  fair  and  obliging  correspondent ; 
and  they  led  me  to  consider  the  possibility  of  rendering  a 
fictitious  personage  interesting  by  mere  dignity  of  mind 
and  rectitude  of  principle,  assisted  by  unpretending  good 
sense  and  temper,  without  any  of  the  beauty,  grace,  tal- 
ent, accomplishment,  and  wit,  to  which  a heroine  of  ro- 
mance is  supposed  to  have  a prescriptive  right.  If  the 
portrait  was  received  with  interest  by  the  public,  I am 
conscious  how  much  it  was  owing  to  the  truth  and  force 
of  the  original  sketch,  which  I regret  that  I am  unable  to 
present  to  the  public,  as  it  was  written  with  much  feeling 
and  spirit. 

Old  and  odd  books,  and  a considerable  collection  ol 
family  legends,  formed  another  quarry,  so  ample,  that  it 
was  much  more  likely  that  the  strength  of  the  labourer 
should  be  exhausted,  than  that  materials  should  fail.  I 
may  mention,  for  example’s  sake,  that  the  terrible  catas- 
trophe of  the  Bride  of  Lammermoor,  actually  occurred 
in  a Scottish  family  of  rank.  The  female  relative,  by 


INTRODUCTION. 


7 


whom  the  melancholy  tale  was  communicated  to  me  many 
years  since,  was  a near  connexion  of  the  family  in  which 
the  event  happened,  and  always  told  it  with  an  appear- 
ance of  melancholy  mystery,  which  enhanced  the  interest. 
She  had  known,  in  her  youth,  the  brother  who  rode  be- 
fore the  unhappy  victim  to  the  fatal  altar,  who,  thotigh  then 
a mere  boy,  and  occupied  almost  entirely  with  the  gallantry 
of  his  own  appearance  in  the  bridal  procession,  could  not 
but  remark  that  the  hand  of  his  sister  was  moist,  and  cold 
as  that  of  a statue.  It  is  unnecessary  further  to  withdraw 
the  veil  from  this  scene  of  family  distress,  nor,  although 
it  occurred  more  than  a hundred  years  since,  might  it  be 
altogether  agreeable  to  the  representatives  of  the  families 
concerned  in  the  narrative.  It  may  be  proper  to  say, 
that  the  events  are  imitated  : but  I had  neither  the  means 
nor  intention  of  copying  the  manners,  or  tracing  the  char- 
acters, of  the  persons  concerned  in  the  real  story. 

Indeed,  I may  here  state  generally,  that  although  I 
have  deemed  historical  personages  free  subjects  of  delin- 
eation, I have  never  on  any  occasion  violated  the  respect 
due  to  private  life.  It  was  indeed  impossible  that  traits 
proper  to  persons,  both  living  and  dead,  with  whom  I have 
had  intercourse  in  society,  should  not  have  risen  to  my 
pen  in  such  works  as  Waverley,  and  those  which  followed 
it.  But  I have  always  studied  to  generalize  the  portraits, 
so  that  they  should  still  seem,  on  the  whole,  the  produc- 
tions of  fancy,  though  possessing  some  resemblance  to 
real  individuals.  Yet  I must  own  my  attempts  have  not 
in  this  last  particular  been  uniformly  successful.  There 
are  men  whose  characters  are  so  peculiarly  marked,  that 
the  delineation  of  some  leading  and  principal  feature,  in- 
evitably places  the  .whole  person  before  you  in  his  indi- 
viduality. Thus,  the  character  of  Jonathan  Oldbuck,  in 
the  Antiquary,  was  partly  founded  on  that  of  an  old  friend 
of  my  youth,  to  whom  I am  indebted  for  introducing  me 
to  Shakspeare,  and  other  invaluable  favours  ; but  I thought 
I had  so  completely  disguised  the  likeness,  that  it  could 
not  be  recognized  by  any  one  now  alive.  I was  mis- 
taken, however,  and  indeed  had  endangered  what  I de- 


8 


INTRODUCTION. 


sired  should  be  considered  as  a secret ; for  I afterwards 
learned  that  a highly  respectable  gentleman,  one  of  the 
few  surviving  friends  of  my  father,  and  an  acute  critic, 
had  said,  upon  the  appearance  of  the  work,  that  he  was 
now  convinced  who  was  the  author  of  it,  as  he  recognized, 
in  the  Antiquary,  traces  of  the  character  of  a very  inti- 
mate friend  of  my  father’s  family. 

I may  here  also  notice,  that  the  sort  of  exchange  of 
gallantry,  which  is  represented  as  taking  place  betwixt 
the  Baron  of  Bradwardine  and  Colonel  Talbot,  is  a lite- 
ral fact.  The  real  circumstances  of  the  anecdote,  alike 
honourable  to  Whig  and  Tory,  are  these  : — 

Alexander  Stewart  of  Invernahyle, — a name  which  I 
cannot  write  without  the  warmest  recollections  of  grati- 
tude to  the  friend  of  my  childhood,  who  first  introduced 
me  to  the  Highlands,  their  traditions,  and  their  manners, 
— had  been  engaged  actively  in  the  troubles  of  1745. 
As  he  charged  at  the  battle  of  Preston  with  his  clan,  the 
Stewarts  of  Appine,  he  saw  an  officer  of  the  opposite 
army  standing  alone  by  a battery  of  four  cannon,  of  which 
he  discharged  three  on  the  advancing  Highlanders,  and 
then  drew  his  sword.  Invernahyle  rushed  on  him,  and 
required  him  to  surrender.  “ Never  to  rebels  !”  was  the 
undaunted  reply,  accompanied  with  a longe,  which  the 
Highlander  received  on  his  target ; but  instead  of  using 
his  sword  in  cutting  down  his  now  defenceless  antagon- 
ist, he  employed  it  in  parrying  the  blow  of  a Lochaher 
axe,  aimed  at  the  officer  by  the  Miller,  one  of  his  own 
followers,  a grim-looking  old  Highlander,  whom  I re- 
member to  have  seen.  Thus  overpowered,  Lieutenant 
Colonel  Allan  Whiteford,  a gentleman  of  rank  and  con- 
sequence, as  well  as  a brave  officer,  gave  up  bis  sword, 
and  with  it  his  purse  and  watch,  which  Invernahyle  ac- 
cepted, to  save  them  from  his  followers.  After  the  affair 
was  over,  Mr.  Stewart  sought  out  his  prisoner,  and  they 
were  introduced  to  each  other  by  the  celebrated  John 
Roy  Stewart,  who  acquainted  Colonel  Whiteford  with  the 
quality  of  his  captor,  and  made  him  aware  of  the  neces- 
sity of  receiving  back  his  property,  which  he  was  inclined 


INTRODUCTION. 


9 


to  leave  in  the  hands  into  which  it  had  fallen.  So  great 
became  the  confidence  established  betwixt  them,  that  In- 
vernahyle  obtained  from  the  Chevalier  his  freedom  upon 
parole  ; and  soon  afterwards,  having  been  sent  back  to 
the  Highlands  to  raise  men,  he  visited  Colonel  Whiteford 
at  his  own  house,  and  spent  two  happy  days  with  him  and 
his  Whig  friends,  without  thinking,  on  either  side,  of  the 
civil  war  which  was  then  raging. 

When  the  battle  of  Culloden  put  an  end  to  the  hopes 
of  Charles  Edward,  Invernahyle,  wounded  and  unable  to 
move,  wras  borne  from  the  field  by  the  faithful  zeal  of  his 
retainers.  But  as  he  had  been  a distinguished  Jacobite, 
his  family  and  property  were  exposed  to  the  system  of 
vindictive  destruction,  too  generally  carried  into  execu- 
tion through  the  country  of  the  insurgents.  It  was  now 
Colonel  Whiteford’s  turn  to  exert  himself,  and  he  wearied 
all  the  authorities,  civil  and  military,  with  his  solicitations 
for  pardon  to  the  saver  of  his  life,  or  at  least  for  a pro- 
tection for  his  wife  and  family.  His  applications  were 
for  a long  time  unsuccessful : “ I was  found  with  the  mark 
of  the  Beast  upon  me  in  every  list,”  was  Invernahyle’s 
expression.  At  length  Colonel  Whiteford  applied  to  the 
Duke  of  Cumberland,  and  urged  his  suit  with  every  argu- 
ment which  he  could  think  of.  Being  still  repulsed,  he 
took  His  commission  from  his  bosom,  and,  having  said 
something  of  his  own  and  his  family’s  services  to  the 
House  of  Hanover,  begged  to  resign  his  situation  in  their 
service,  since  he  could  not  be  permitted  to  show  his  grat- 
itude to  the  person  to  whom  he  owed  his  life.  The  Duke, 
struck  with  his  earnestness,  desired  him  to  take  up  his 
commission,  and  granted  the  protection  required  for  the 
family  of  Invernahyle. 

The  Chieftain  himself  lay  concealed  in  a cave  near  his 
own  house,  before  which  a small  body  of  regular  soldiers 
was  encamped.  He  could  hear  their  muster-roll  called 
every  morning,  and  their  drums  beat  to  quarters  at  night, 
and  not  a change  of  the  sentinels  escaped  him.  As  it 
was  suspected  that  he  was  lurking  somewhere  on  the 
property,  his  family  were  closely  watched,  and  compelled 


10 


INTRODUCTION. 


to  use  the  utmost  precaution  in  supplying  him  with  food. 
One  of  his  daughters,  a child  of  eight  or  ten  years  old, 
was  employed  as  the  agent  least  likely  to  be  suspected. 
She  was  an  instance  among  others,  that  a time  of  danger 
and  difficulty  creates  a premature  sharpness  of  intellect. 
She  made  herself  acquainted  among  the  soldiers,  till  she 
became  so  familiar  to  them,  that  her  motions  escaped  their 
notice  ; and  her  practice  was,  to  stroll  away  into  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  cave,  and  leave  what  slender  supply 
of  food  she  carried  for  that  purpose  under  some  remark- 
able stone,  or  the  root  of  some  tree,  where  her  father 
might,  find  it  as  he  crept  by  night  from  his  lurking-place. 
Times  became  milder,  and  my  excellent  friend  was  re- 
lieved from  proscription  by  the  Act  of  Indemnity.  Such 
is  the  interesting  story  which  I have  rather  injured  than 
improved,  by  the  manner  in  which  it  is  told  in  Waverley. 

This  incident,  with  several  other  circumstances  illus- 
trating the  Tales  in  question,  was  communicated  by  me 
to  my  late  lamented  friend,  William  Erskine,  (a  Scottish 
Judge,  by  the  title  of  Lord  Kinedder,)  who  afterwards  re- 
viewed with  far  too  much  partiality  the  Tales  of  my  Land- 
lord, for  the  Quarterly  Review  of  January  1817.  In  the 
same  article,  are  contained  other  illustrations  of  the  Nov- 
els, with  which  I supplied  my  accomplished  friend,  who 
took  the  trouble  to  write  the  review.  The  reader  who  is 
desirous  of  such  information,  will  find  the  original  of  Meg 
Merrilees,  and  I believe  of  one  or  two  other  personages 
of  the  same  cast  of  character,  in  the  article  referred  to. 

I may  also  mention,  that  the  tragic  and  savage  circum-  * 
stances  which  are  represented  as  preceding  the  birth  of 
Allan  MacAulay,  in  the  Legend  of  Montrose,  really  hap- 
pened in  the  family  of  Stewart  of  Ardvoirloch.  The  wager 
about  the  candlesticks,  whose  place  was  supplied  by  High- 
land torch-bearers,  was  laid  and  won  by  one  of  the  Mac- 
Donalds of  Keppoch. 

There  can  be  but  little  amusement  in  winnowing  out 
the  few  grains  of  truth  which  are  contained  in  this  mass  of 
empty  fiction.  I may,  however,  before  dismissing  the 
subject,  allude  to  the  various  localities  which  have  been 


INTRODUCTION. 


11 


affixed  to  some  of  the  scenery  introduced  into  these  Nov- 
els, by  which,  for  example,  Wolis-Hope  is  identified  with 
Fast-Castle  in  Berwickshire, — Tillietudlem  with  Dra- 
phane  in  Clydesdale, — and  the  valley  in  the  Monastery, 
called  Glendearg,  with  the  dale  of  the  Allan,  above  Lord 
Somerville’s  villa,  near  Melrose.  1 can  only  say,  that,  in 
these  and  other  instances,  I had  no  purpose  of  describing 
any  particular  local  spot ; and  the  resemblance  must 
therefore  be  of  that  general  kind  which  necessarily  exists 
betwixt  scenes  of  the  same  character.  The  iron-bound 
coast  of  Scotland  affords  upon  its  headlands  and  promon- 
tories fifty  such  castles  as  WolPs-Hope  ; every  county  has 
a valley  more  or  less  resembling  Glendearg  ; and  if  castles 
like  Tillietudlem,  or  mansions  like  the  Baron  of  Brad- 
wardine’s,  are  now  less  frequently  to  be  met  with,  it  is 
owing  to  the  rage  of  indiscriminate  destruction,  which  has 
removed  or  ruined  so  many  monuments  of  antiquity,  when 
they  were  not  protected  by  their  inaccessible  situation. 

The  scraps  of  poetry  which  have  been  in  most  cases 
tacked  to  the  beginning  of  chapters  in  these  Novels,  are 
sometimes  quoted  either  from  reading  or  from  memory, 
but,  in  the  general  case,  are  pure  invention.  I found  it 
too  troublesome  to  turn  to  the  collection  of  the  British 
Poets  to  discover  apposite  mottos,  and,  in  the  situation  of 
the  theatrical  mechanist,  who,  when  the  white  paper  which 
represented  his  showier  of  snow  was  exhausted,  continued 
the  storm  by  snowing  brown,  I drew  on  my  memory  as 
long  as  I could,  and,  when  that  failed,  eked  it  out  with 
invention.  I believe  that,  in  some  cases,  where  actual 
names  are  affixed  to  the  supposed  quotations,  it  would  be 
to  little  purpose  to  seek  them  in  the  works  of  the  authors 
referred  to. 

And  now  the  reader  may  expect  me,  while  in  the  con- 
fessional, to  explain  the  motives  why  I have  so  long  per- 
sisted in  disclaiming  the  works  of  which  I am  now  writing. 
To  this  it  would  be  difficult  to  give  any  other  reply,  save 
that  of  Corporal  Nym — It  was  the  humour  or  caprice  of 
the  time.  I hope  it  will  not  be  construed  into  ingratitude 
to  the  public,  to  whose  indulgence  I have  owed  much  more 


12 


INTRODUCTION. 


than  to  any  merit  of  my  own,  if  I confess  that  I am,  and 
have  been,  more  indifferent  to  success,  or  to  failure,  as 
an  author,  than  may  be  the  case  with  others,  who  feel 
more  strongly  the  passion  for  literary  fame,  probably  be- 
cause they  are  justly  conscious  of  a better  title  to  it.  It 
was  not  until  I had  attained  the  age  of  thirty  years  that  I 
made  any  serious  attempt  at  distinguishing  myself  as  an 
author  ; and  at  that  period,  men’s  hopes,  desires,  and 
wishes,  have  usually  acquired  something  of  a decisive 
character,  and  are  not  eagerly  and  easily  diverted  into  a 
new  channel.  When  I made  the  discovery, — for  to  me 
it  was  one, — that  by  amusing  myself  with  composition, 
which  I felt  a delightful  occupation,  I could  also  give 
pleasure  to  others,  and  became  aware  that  literary  pur- 
suits were  likely  to  engage  in  future  a considerable  por- 
tion of  my  time,  I felt  some  alarm  that  I might  acquire 
those  habits  of  jealousy  and  fretfulness  which  have  les- 
sened, and  even  degraded,  the  character  of  the  children 
of  imagination,  and  rendered  them,  by  petty  squabbles  and 
mutual  irritability,  the  laughing-stock  of  the  people  of  the 
world.  I resolved,  therefore,  in  this  respect  to  guard  my 
breast  (perhaps  an  unfriendly  critic  may  add,  my  brow,) 
with  triple  brass,  and  as  much  as  possible  to  avoid  rest- 
ing my  thoughts  and  wishes  upon  literary  success,  lest  I 
should  endanger  my  own  peace  of  mind  and  tranquillity 
by  literary  failure.  It  would  argue  either  stupid  apathy, 
or  ridiculous  affectation,  to  say  that  I have  been  insensi- 
ble to  the  public  applause,  when  I have  been  honoured 
with  its  testimonies  ; and  still  more  highly  do  I prize  the 
invaluable  friendships  which  some  temporary  popularity 
has  enabled  me  to  form  among  those  most  distinguished 
by  talents  and  genius,  and  which  I venture  to  hope  now 
rest  upon  a basis  more  firm  than  the  circumstances  which 
gave  rise  to  them.  Yet  feeling  all  these  advantages  as  a 
man  ought  to  do,  and  must  do,  I may  say,  with  truth  and 
confidence,  that  I have  tasted  of  the  intoxicating  cup  with 
moderation,  and  that  I have  never,  either  in  conversation 
or  correspondence,  encouraged  discussions  respecting  my 
own  literary  pursuits.  On  the  contrary,  I have  usually 


INTRODUCTION. 


13 


found  such  topics,  even  when  introduced  from  motives 
most  flattering  to  myself,  rather  embarrassing  and  dis- 
agreeable. 

I have  now  frankly  told  my  motives  for  concealment, 
so  far  as  I am  conscious  of  having  any,  and  the  public 
will  forgive  the  egotism  of  the  detail,  as  what  is  necessa- 
rily connected  with  it.  The  author,  so  long  and  loudly 
called  for,  has  appeared  on  the  stage,  and  made  his  obei- 
sance to  the  audience.  Thus  far  his  conduct  is  a mark 
of  respect.  To  linger  in  their  presence  would  be  in- 
trusion. 

I have  only  to  repeat,  that  I avow  myself  in  print,  as 
formerly  in  words,  the  sole  and  unassisted  author  of  all 
the  Novels  published  as  the  composition  of  the  “ Author 
of  Waverley.”  I do  this  without  shame,  for  lam  uncon- 
scious that  there  is  anything  in  their  composition  which 
deserves  reproach,  either  on  the  score  of  religion  or  mo- 
rality ; and  without  any  feeling  of  exultation,  because, 
whatever  may  have  been  their  temporary  success,  I am 
well  aware  how  much  their  reputation  depends  upon  the 
caprice  of  fashion  ; and  I have  already  mentioned  the 
precarious  tenure  by  which  it  is  held,  as  a reason  for 
displaying  no  great  avidity  in  grasping  at  the  possession. 

I ought  to  mention,  before  concluding,  that  twenty 
persons  at  least  were,  either  from  intimacy  or  from  the 
confidence  which  circumstances  rendered  necessary,  par- 
ticipant of  this  secret ; and  as  there  was  no  instance,  to 
my  knowledge,  of  any  one  of  the  number  breaking  the 
confidence  required  from  them,  I am  the  more  obliged 
to  them,  because  the  slight  and  trivial  character  of  the 
mystery  was  not  qualified  to  inspire  much  respect  in  those 
intrusted  with  it. 

As  for  the  work  which  follows,  it  was  meditated,  and 
in  part  printed,  long  before  the  avowal  of  the  novels  took 
place,  and  originally  commenced  with  a declaration  that 
it  was  neither  to  have  introduction  nor  preface  of  any 
kind.  This  long  proem,  prefixed  to  a work  intended  not 
to  have  any,  may,  however,  serve  to  show  how  human 
2 VOL.  i. 


14 


INTRODUCTION. 


purposes,  in  the  most  trifling  as  well  as  the  most  impor- 
tant affairs,  are  liable  to  be  controlled  by  the  course  of 
events.  Thus,  we  begin  to  cross  a strong  river  with  our 
eyes  and  our  resolution  fixed  on  the  point  of  the  opposite 
shore,  on  which  we  purpose  to  land  ; but,  gradually  giv- 
ing way  to  the  torrent,  are  glad,  by  the  aid  perhaps  of 
branch  or  bush,  to  extricate  ourselves  at  some  distant  and 
perhaps  dangerous  landing-place,  much  farther  down  the 
stream  than  that  on  which  we  had  fixed  our  intentions. 

Hoping  that  the  Courteous  Reader  will  afford  to  a 
known  and  familiar  acquaintance  some  portion  of  the 
favour  which  he  extended  to  a disguised  candidate  for 
his  applause,  I beg  leave  to  subscribe  myself  his  obliged 
humble  servant, 

WALTER  SCOTT. 

Abbotsford,  October  1,  1827. 


CHRONICLES 


OF 

THE  CANONGATE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Sic  itur  ad  astra. 

“ This  is  the  path  to  heaven.”  Such  is  the  ancient 
motto  attached  to  the  armorial  bearings  of  the  Canongate, 
and  which  is  inscribed,  with  greater  or  less  propriety,  upon 
all  the  public  buildings,  from  the  church  to  the  pillory,  in 
the  ancient  quarter  of  Edinburgh,  which  bears,  or  rather 
once  bore,  the  same  relation  to  the  Good  Town  that 
Westminster  does  to  London,  being  still  possessed  of  the 
palace  of  the  sovereign,  as  it  formerly  was  dignified  by 
the  residence  of  the  principal  nobility  and  gentry.  I 
may,  therefore,  with  some  propriety,  put  the  same  motto 
at  the  head  of  the  literary  undertaking  by  which  I hope 
to  illustrate  the  hitherto  undistinguished  name  of  Chrystal 
Croftangry. 

The  public  may  desire  to  know  something  of  an  author 
who  pitches  at  such  height  his  ambitious  expectations. 
The  gentle  reader,  therefore — for  1 am  much  of  Captain 
Bobadil’s  humour,  and  could  to  no  other  extend  myself 
so  far — th e gentle  reader,  then,  will  be  pleased  to  under- 


16 


CHRONICLES  OF 


stand,  that  1 am  a Scottish  gentleman  of  the  old  school, 
with  a fortune,  temper,  and  person,  rather  the  worse  for 
wear.  I have  known  the  world  for  these  forty  years, 
having  written  myself  man  nearly  since  that  period — and 
1 do  not  think  it  is  much  mended.  But  this  is  an  opinion 
which  I keep  to  myself  when  1 am  among  younger  folk, 
for  I recollect,  in  my  youth,  quizzing  the  Sexagenarians 
who  carried  back  their  ideas  of  a perfect  state  of  society 
to  the  days  of  laced  coats  and  triple  ruffles,  and  some  of 
them  to  the  blood  and  blows  of  the  Forty-five  : There- 
fore I am  cautious  in  exercising  the  right  of  censorship, 
which  is  supposed  to  be  acquired  by  men  arrived  at,  or 
approaching,  the  mysterious  period  of  life,  when  the 
numbers  of  seven  and  nine  multiplied  into  each  other, 
form  what  sages  have  termed  the  Grand  Climacteric. 

Of  the  earlier  part  of  my  life  it  is  only  necessary  to 
say,  that  I swept  the  boards  of  the  Parliament-House 
with  the  skirts  of  my  gown  for  the  usual  number  of  years 
during  which  young  Lairds  were  in  my  time  expected  to 
keep  term — got  no  fees — laughed,  and  made  others 
laugh — drank  claret  at  Bayle’s,  Fortune’s,  and  Walker’s 
— and  eat  oysters  in  the  Covenant  Close. 

Becoming  my  own  master,  i flung  my  gown  at  the  bar- 
keeper, and  commenced  gay  man  on  my  own  account. 
In  Edinburgh,  I ran  into  all  the  expensive  society  which 
the  place  then  afforded.  When  I went  to  my  house  in 
the  shire  of  Lanark,  I emulated  to  the  utmost  the  expen- 
ses of  men  of  large  fortune,  and  had  my  hunters,  my  first-* 
rate  pointers,  my  game-cocks,  and  feeders.  1 can  m6re 
easily  forgive  myself  for  these  follies,  than  for  others  of  a 
still  more  blameable  kind,  so  indifferently  cloaked  over 
that  my  poor  mother  thought  herself  obliged  to  leave  my 
habitation,  and  betake  herself  to  a small  inconvenient 
jointure-house,  which  she  occupied  till  her  death.  I 
think,  however,  I was  not  exclusively  to  blame  in  this 
separation,  and  I believe  my  mother  afterwards  condemn- 
ed herself  for  being  too  hasty.  Thank  God,  the  adver- 
sity which  destroyed  the  means  of  continuing  my  dissipa- 
tion, restored  me  to  the  affections  of  my  surviving  parent. 


THE  CANONGATE. 


17 


My  course  of  life  could  not  last.  I ran  too  fast  to  run 
long  ; and  when  I would  have  checked  my  career,  1 was 
perhaps  too  near  the  brink  of  the  precipice.  Some  mis- 
haps 1 prepared  by  my  own  folly,  others  came  upon  me 
unawares.  I put  my  estate  out  to  nurse  to  a fat  man  of 
business,  who  smothered  the  babe  he  should  have  brought 
back  to  me  in  health  and  strength,  and,  in  dispute  with 
this  honest  gentleman,  1 found,  like  a skilful  general,  that 
my  position  would  be  most  judiciously  assumed  by  taking 
it  up  near  the  Abbey  of  Holy  rood.  It  was  then  I first 
became  acquainted  with  the  quarter,  which  my  little 
work  will,  I hope,  render  immortal,  and  grew  familiar 
with  those  magnificent  wilds,  through  which  the  Kings  of 
Scotland  once  chased  the  dark-brown  deer,  but  which 
were  chiefly  recommended  to  me  in  those  days,  by  their 
being  inaccessible  to  those  metaphysical  persons,  whom 
the  law  of  the  neighbouring  country  terms  Joe  and  Rich- 
ard Doe. 

Dire  was  the  strife  betwixt  my  quondam  doer  and  my- 
self; during  which  my  motions  were  circumscribed,  like 
those  of  some  conjured  demon,  within  a circle,  which, 
“ beginning  at  the  northern  gate  of  the  King’s  Park, 
thence  running  northways,  is  bounded  on  the  left  by  the 
King’s  garden-wall,  and  the  gutter,  or  kennel,  in  a line 
wherewith  it  crosses  the  High  Street  to  the  Water-gate, 
and  passing  through  the  sewer,  is  bounded  by  the  walls  of 
the  Tennis-court  and  Physic-garden,  he.  Then  it  fol- 
lows the  walls  of  the  church-yard,  joins  the  north-west 
wall  of  St.  Ann’s  Yards,  and  going  east  to  the  clack  mill- 
house,  turns  southward  to  the  turnstile  in  the  King’s  park- 
wall,  and  includes  the  whole  King’s  Park  within  the  Sanc- 
tuary.” 

These  limits,  which  I abridge  from  the  accurate  Mait- 
land, once  marked  the  Girth,  or  Asylum,  belonging  to 
the  Abbey  of  Holy  rood,  and  which,  being  still  an  appen- 
dage to  the  royal  palace,  has  retained  the  privilege  of  an 
asylum  for  civil  debt.  One  would  think  the  space  suffi- 
ciently extensive  for  a man  to  stretch  his  limbs  in,  as, 

2*  VOL.  i. 


18 


CHRONICLES  OF 


besides  a reasonable  proportion  of  level  ground,  (con- 
sidering that  the  scene  lies  in  Scotland,)  it  includes  within 
its  precincts  the  mountain  of  Arthur’s  Seat,  and  the  rocks 
and  pasture  land  called  Salisbury  Crags.  But  yet  it  is 
inexpressible  how,  after  a certain  time  had  elapsed,  1 used 
to  long  for  the  Sunday,  which  permitted  me  to  extend  my 
walk  without  limitation.  During  the  other  six  days  of 
the  week  1 felt  a sickness  of  heart,  which,  but  for  the 
speedy  approach  of  the  hebdomadal  day  of  liberty,  I could 
hardly  have  endured.  I experienced  the  impatience  of 
a mastiff,  who  tugs  in  vain  to  extend  the  limits  which  his 
chain  permits. 

Day  after  day  1 have  walked  by  the  side  of  the  kennel 
which  divides  the  Sanctuary  from  the  unprivileged  part 
of  the  Canongate  ; and  though  the  month  was  July,  and 
the  scene  was  the  old  town  of  Edinburgh,  I preferred  it 
to  the  fresh  air  and  verdant  turf  which  I might  have  en- 
joyed in  the  King’s  Park,  or  to  the  cool  and  solemn  gloom 
of  the  portico  which  surrounds  the  palace.  To  an  indif- 
ferent person  either  side  of  the  gutter  would  have  seemed 
much  the  same — the  houses  equally  mean,  the  children 
as  ragged  and  dirty,  the  carmen  as  brutal,  the  whole  form- 
ing the  same  picture  of  low  life  in  a deserted  and  impov- 
erished quarter  of  a large  city.  But  to  me  the  gutter, 
or  kennel,  was  what  the  brook  Kidron  was  to  Shimei  ; 
death  was  denounced  against  him  should  he  cross  it, 
doubtless  because  it  was  known  to  his  wisdom  who  pro- 
nounced the  doom,  that  from  that  time  the  devoted  man’s 
desire  to  transgress  the  precept  would  become  irresistible, 
and  he  would  be  sure  to  draw  down  on  his  head  the  penalty 
which  he  had  already  justly  incurred  by  cursing  the  an- 
ointed of  God.  For  my  part,  all  Elysium  seemed  open- 
ing on  tiie  other  side  of  the  kennel,  and  I envied  the  little 
blackguards,  who,  stopping  the  current  with  their  little 
dam-dikes  of  mud,  had  a right,  during  the  operation,  to 
stand  on  either  side  of  the  nasty  puddle  which  best  pleas- 
ed them.  I was  so  childish  as  even  to  make  an  occasional 
excursion  across,  were  it  only  for  a few  yards,  and  felt 
the  triumph  of  a school- boy,  who,  trespassing  in  an  orch- 


THE  CANONGATE. 


19 


ard,  hurries  back  again  with  a fluttering  sensation  of  joy 
and  terror,  betwixt  the  pleasure  of  having  executed  his 
purpose,  and  the  fear  of  being  taken  or  discovered. 

1 have  sometimes  asked  myself,  what  I should  have 
done  in  case  of  actual  imprisonment,  since  I could  not 
bear  without  impatience  a restriction  which  is  compar- 
atively a mere  trifle  ; but  I really  could  never  answer  the 
question  to  my  own  satisfaction.  ’ 1 have  all  my  life  hated 
those  treacherous  expedients  called  mezzo-termini , and 
it  is  possible  with  this  disposition  I might  have  endured 
more  patiently  an  absolute  privation  of  liberty,  than  the 
more  modified  restrictions  to  which  my  residence  in  the 
Sanctuary  at  this  period  subjected  me.  If,  however,  the 
feelings  1 then  experienced  were  to  increase  in  intensity 
according  to  the  difference  between  a jail  and  my  actual 
condition,  I must  have  hanged  myself,  or  pined  to  death  ; 
there  could  have  been  no  other  alternative. 

Amongst  many  companions  who  forgot  and  neglected  me 
of  course,  when  my  difficulties  seemed  to  be  inextricable, 
1 had  one  true  friend  ; and  that  friend  was  a barrister, 
who  knew  the  laws  of  his  country  well,  and,  tracing  them 
up  to  the  spirit  of  equity  and  justice  in  which  they  origin- 
ate, had  repeatedly  prevented,  by  his  benevolent  and  manly 
exertions,  the  triumphs  of  selfish  cunning  over  simplicity 
and  folly.  He  undertook  my  cause,  with  the  assistance 
of  a solicitor  of  a character  similar  to  his  own.  My  quon- 
dam doer  had  intrenched  himself  chin-deep  among  legal 
trenches,  hornworks,  and  covered  ways ; but  my  two 
protectors  shelled  him  out  of  his  defences,  and  I was  at 
length  a free  man,  at  liberty  to  go  or  stay  wheresoever 
my  mind  listed. 

I left  my  lodging  as  hastily  as  if  it  had  been  a pest- 
house  ; I did  not  even  stop  to  receive  some  change  that 
was  due  to  me  on  settling  with  my  landlady,  and  I saw 
the  poor  woman  stand  at  her  door  looking  after  my  pre- 
cipitate flight,  and  shaking  her  head  as  she  wrapped  the 
silver  which  she  was  counting  for  me  in  a separate  piece 
of  paper,  apart  from  the  store  in  her  own  moleskin  purse. 
An  honest  Highlandwoman  was  Janet  MacEvoy,  and 


20 


CHRONICLES  OF 


deserved  a greater  remuneration,  had  I possessed  the 
power  of  bestowing  it.  But  my  eagerness  of  delight  was 
too  extreme  to  pause  for  explanation  with  Janet.  On  I 
pushed  through  the  groups  of  children,  of  whose  sports  I 
had  been  so  often  a lazy  lounging  spectator.  I sprung 
over  the  gutter  as  if  it  had  been  the  fatal  Styx,  and  I a 
ghost,  which,  eluding  Pluto’s  authority,  was  making  its 
escape  from  Limbo  lake.  My  friend  had  difficulty  to 
restrain  me  from  running  like  a madman  up  the  street ; 
and  in  spite  of  his  kindness  and  hospitality,  which  sooth- 
ed me  for  a day  or  two,  I was  not  quite  happy  until  I 
found  myself  aboard  of  a Leith  smack,  and,  standing 
down  the  Frith  with  a fair  wind,  might  snap  my  fingers 
at  the  retreating  outline  of  Arthur’s  Seat,  to  the  vicinity 
of  which  I had  been  so  long  confined. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  to  trace  my  future  progress  through 
life.  1 had  extricated  myself,  or  rather  had  been  freed 
by  my  friends,  from  the  brambles  and  thickets  of  the  law, 
but,  as  befell  the  sheep  in  the  fable,  a great  part  of  my 
fleece  was  left  behind  me.  Something  remained,  how- 
ever ; I was  in  the  season  for  exertion,  and,  as  my  good 
mother  used  to  say,  there  was  always  life  for  living  folk. 
Stern  necessity  gave  my  manhood  that  prudence  which 
my  youth  was  a stranger  to.  I faced  danger,  I endured 
fatigue,  I sought  foreign  climates,  and  proved  that  I belong- 
ed to  the  nation  which  is  proverbially  patient  of  labour 
and  prodigal  of  life.  Independence,  like  liberty  to  Vir- 
gil’s shepherd,  came  late,  but  came  at  last,  with  no  great 
affluence  in  its  train,  but  bringing  enough  to  support  a 
decent  appearance  for  the  rest  of  my  life,  and  to  induce 
cousins  to  be  civil,  and  gossips  to  say,  “ I winder  who 
old  Croft  will  make  his  heir  c?  he  must  have  picked  up 
something,  and  I should  not  be  surprised  if  it  prove  more 
than  folk  think  of.” 

My  first  impulse  when  I returned  home  was  to  rush  to 
the  house  of  my  benefactor,  the  only  man  who  had  in  my 
distress  interested  himself  in  my  behalf.  He  wTas  a snuff- 
taker,  and  it  had  been  the  pride  of  my  heart  to  save  the 
ipsa  corpora  of  the  first  score  of  guineas  I could  hoard, 


THE  CANONGATE. 


21 


and  to  have  them  converted  into  as  tasteful  a snuff-box  as 
Rundell  and  Bridge  could  devise.  This  I had  thrust  for 
security  into  the  breast  of  my  waistcoat,  while,  impatient 
to  transfer  it  to  the  person  for  whom  it  was  destined,  I 

hastened  to  his  house  in square.  When  the  front 

of  the  house  became  visible,  a feeling  of  alarm  checked 
me.  I had  been  long  absent  from  Scotland,  my  friend 
was  some  years  older  than  I ; he*  might  have  been  called 
to  the  congregation  of  the  just.  I paused,  and  gazed  on 
the  house,  as  if  I had  hoped  to  form  some  conjecture  from 
the  outward  appearance  concerning  the  state  of  the  fam- 
ily within.  1 know  not  how  it  was,  but  the  lower  win- 
dows being  all  closed  and  no  one  stirring,  my  sinister 
forebodings  were  rather  strengthened.  1 regretted  now 
that  I had  not  made  inquiry  before  I left  the  inn  where  I 
alighted  from  the  mail-coach.  But  it  was  too  late ; so 
I hurried  on,  eager  to  know  the  best  or  the  worst  which 
I could  learn. 

The  brass-plate  bearing  my  friend’s  name  and  desig- 
nation was  still  on  the  door,  and  when  the  door  was  opened, 
the  old  domestic  appeared  a good  deal  older  I thought 
than  he  ought  naturally  to  have  looked,  considering  the  pe- 
riod of  my  absence.  “ Is  Mr.  at  home  9”  said  I, 

pressing  forward. 

“ Yes,  sir,”  said  John,  placing  himself  in  opposition  to 
my  entrance,  “ he  is  at  home,  but ” 

“ But  he  is  not  in,”  said  I.  “ I remember  your  phrase 
of  old,  John.  Come,  I will  step  into  his  room,  and  leave 
a line  for  him.” 

John  was  obviously  embarrassed  by  my  familiarity.  I 
was  some  one,  he  saw,  w-hom  he  ought  to  recollect,  at 
the  same  time  it  was  evident  he  remembered  nothing 
about  me. 

“ Ay,  sir,  my  master  is  in,  and  in  his  own  room,  but — ” 

I would  not  hear  him  out,  but  passed  before  him  towards 
the  well-known  apartment.  A young  lady  came  out  of 
the  room  a little  disturbed,  as  it  seemed,  and  said,  “ John, 
what  is  the  matter  V 5 


22 


CHRONICLES  OF 


“ A gentleman.  Miss  Nelly,  that  insists  on  seeing  my 
master.” 

“ A very  old  and  deeply  indebted  friend,”  said  I, 
“ that  ventures  to  press  myself  on  my  much-respected 
benefactor  on  my  return  from  abroad.” 

“ Alas,  sir,”  replied  she,  “ my  uncle  would  be  happy 
to  see  you,  but” 

At  this  moment,  something  was  heard  within  the  apart- 
ment like  the  falling  of  a plate,  or  glass,  and  immediately 
after  my  friend’s  voice  called  angrily  and  eagerly  on  his 
niece.  She  entered  the  room  hastily,  and  so  did  I.  But 
it  was  to  see  a spectacle,  compared  with  which  that  of 
my  benefactor  stretched  on  his  bier  would  have  been  a 
happy  one. 

The  easy-chair  filled  with  cushions,  the  extended 
limbs  swathed  in  flannel,  the  wide  wrapping-gown  and 
night-cap,  showed  illness ; but  the  dimmed  eye,  once  so 
replete  with  living  fire,  the  blabber  lip,  whose  dilation  and 
compression  used  to  give  such  character  U>  his  animated 
countenance, — the  stammering  tongue,  that  once  poured 
forth  such  floods  of  masculine  eloquence,  and  had  often 
swayed  the  opinion  of  the  sages  whom  he  addressed, — 
all  these  sad  symptoms  evinced  that  my  friend  was  in  the 
melancholy  condition  of  those  in  whom  the  principle  of 
animal  life  has  unfortunately  survived  that  of  mental  in- 
telligence. He  gazed  a moment  at  me,  but  then  seemed 
insensible  of  my  presence,  and  went  on — he,  once  the 
most  courteous  and  well-bred — to  babble  unintelligible 
but  violent  reproaches  against  his  niece  and  servant,  be- 
cause he  himself  had  dropped  a tea-cup  in  attempting  to 
place  it  on  a table  at  his  elbow.  His  eyes  caught  a 
momentary  fire  from  his  irritation  ; but  he  struggled  in 
vain  for  words  to  express  himself  adequately,  as,  looking 
from  his  servant  to  his  niece,  and  then  to  the  table,  he 
laboured  to  explain  that  they  had  placed  it  (though  it 
touched  his  chair)  at  too  great  a distance  from  him. 

The  young  person,  who  had  naturally  a resigned  Ma- 
donna-like expression  of  countenance,  listened  to  his  im- 
patient chiding  with  the  most  humble  submission,  checked 


TIIE  CANONGATE. 


23 


the  servant,  whose  less  delicate  feelings  would  have  en- 
tered on  his  justification,  and  gradually,  by  the  sweet  and 
soft  tones  of  her  voice,  soothed  to  rest  the  spirit  of  cause- 
less irritation. 

She  then  cast  a look  towards  me,  which  expressed, 
“ You  see  all  that  remains  of  him  whom  you  call  friend.” 
It  seemed  also  to  say,  “ Your  longer  presence  here  can 
only  be  distressing  to  us  all.” 

“ Forgive  me,  young  lady,”  I said,  as  well  as  tears 
would  permit; — “ I am  a person  deeply  obliged  to  your 
uncle.  My  name  is  Croftangry.” 

“ Lord  ! and  that  I should  not  hae  minded  ye,  Maister 
Croftangry,”  said  the  servant.  “ Ay,  I mind  my  master 
had  muckle  fash  about  your  job.  I hae  heard  him  order 
in  fresh  candles  as  midnight  chappit,  and  till’t  again.  In- 
deed, ye  had  ay  his  gude  word,  Mr.  Croftangry,  for  a* 
that  folks  said  about  you.” 

“ Hold  your  tongue,  John,”  said  the  lady,  somewhat 
angrily  ; and  then  continued,  addressing  herself  to  me, 
“ I am  sure,  sir,  you  must  be  sorry  to  see  my  uncle  in  this 
state.  I know  you  are  his  friend.  I have  heard  him 
mention  your  name,  and  wonder  he  never  heard  from 
you.” — A new  cut  this,  and  it  went  to  my  heart.  But 
she  continued,  “ I really  do  not  know  if  it  is  right  that 
any  should — If  my  uncle  should  know  you,  which  I scarce 
think  possible,  he  would  be  much  affected,  and  the  doctor 

says  that  any  agitation But  here  comes  Dr.  * to 

give  his  own  opinion. 

Dr. entered.  I had  left  him  a middle-aged  man  ; 

he  was  now  an  elderly  one ; but  still  the  same  benevo- 
lent Samaritan,  who  went  about  doing  good,  and  thought 
the  blessings  of  the  poor  as  good  a recompense  of  his  pro- 
fessional skill  as  the  gold  of  the  rich. 

He  looked  at  me  with  surprise,  but  the  young  lady 
said  a word  of  introduction,  and  I,  who  was  known  to  the 
doctor  formerly,  hastened  to  complete  it.  He  recollected 
me  perfectly,  and  intimated  that  he  was  well  acquainted 
with  the  reasons  l had  for  being  deeply  interested  in  the 
fate  of  his  patient.  He  gave  me  a very  melancholy  ac- 


24 


CHRONICLES  OF 


count  of  my  poor  friend,  drawing  me  for  that  purpose  a 
little  apart  from  the  lady.  “ The  light  of  life,”  he  said, 
“ was  trembling  in  the  socket ; he  scarcely  expected  it 
would  ever  leap  up  even  into  a momentary  flash,  but 
more  was  impossible.”  He  then  stepped  towards  his 
patient,  and  put  some  questions,  to  which  the  poor  invalid, 
though  he  seemed  to  recognize  the  friendly  and  familiar 
voice,  answered  only  in  a faltering  and  uncertain  manner. 

The  young  lady,  in  her  turn,  had  drawn  back  when 
the  doctor  approached  his  patient.  “ You  see  how  it  is 
with  him,”  said  the  doctor,  addressing  me  ; “ I have 
heard  our  poor  friend,  in  one  of  the  most  eloquent  of  his 
pleadings,  give  a description  of  this  very  disease,  which 
he  compared  to  the  tortures  inflicted  by  Mezentius,  wrhen 
he  chained  the  dead  to  the  living.  The  soul,  he  said,  is 
imprisoned  in  its  dungeon  of  flesh,  and  though  retaining 
its  natural  and  unalienable  properties,  can  no  more  exert 
them  than  the  captive  inclosed  within  a prison-house  can 
act  as  a free  agent.  Alas  ! to  see  him , who  could  so  well 
describe  what  this  malady  was  in  others,  a prey  himself 
to  its  infirmities  ! I shall  never  forget  the  solemn  tone  of 
expression  with  which  he  summed  up  the  incapacities  of 
the  paralytic, — the  deafened  ear,  the  dimmed  eye,  the 
crippled  limbs, — in  the  noble  words  of  Juvenal — 

*'  omni 

Membrorum  damno  major,  dementia,  quae  nec 

Nomina  servorum,  nec  vultum  agnoscit  amici.’  ” 

As  the  physician  repeated  these  lines,  a flash  of  intel- 
ligence seemed  to  revive  in  the  invalid’s  eye — sunk  again 
— again  struggled,  and  he  spoke  more  intelligibly  than 
before,  and  in  the  tone  of  one  eager  to  say  something 
which  he  felt  would  escape  him  unless  said  instantly. 
“ A question  of  death-bed,  a question  of  death-bed,  doc- 
tor— a reduction  ex  capite  lecti — Withering  against  Wili- 
bus — about  the  morbus  sonticus.  I pleaded  the  cause 
for  the  pursuer — I,  and — and — Why,  I shall  forget  my 
own  name — J,  and — he  that  was  the  wittiest  and  the  best- 
humoured  man  living ” 


THE  CANON GATE. 


25 


The  description  enabled  the  doctor  to  fill  up  the  blank, 
and  the  patient  joyfully  repeated  the  name  suggested. 

“ Ay,  ay,”  he  said,  “just  he — Harry — poor  Harry” 

The  light  in  his  eye  died  away,  and  he  sunk  back  in  his 
easy-chair. 

“ You  have  now  seen  more  of  our  poor  friend  Mr. 
Croftangry,”  said  the  physician,  “ than  I dared  venture 
to  promise  you  ; and  now  1 must  take  my  professional 

authority  on  me,  and  ask  you  to  retire.  Miss will, 

I am  sure,  let  you  know  if  a moment  should  by  any  chance 
occur  when  her  uncle  can  see  you.” 

What  could  I do  I gave  my  card  to  the  young  lady, 
and,  taking  my  offering  from  my  bosom — “ If  my  poor 
friend,”  1 said,  with  accents  as  broken  almost  as  his  own, 
“ should  ask  where  this  came  from,  name  me  ; and  say 
from  the  most  obliged  and  most  grateful  man  alive.  Say, 
the  gold  of  which  it  is  composed  was  saved  by  grains  at 
a time,  and  was  hoarded  with  as  much  avarice  as  ever 
was  a miser’s  : — to  bring  it  here  1 have  come  a thousand 
miles,  and  now,  alas,  I find  him  thus  !” 

I laid  the  box  on  the  table,  and  was  retiring  with  a lin- 
gering step.  The  eye  of  the  invalid  was  caught  by  it, 
as  that  of  a child  by  a glittering  toy,  and  with  infantine 
impatience  he  faltered  out  inquiries  at  his  niece.  With 
gentle  mildness  she  repeated  again  and  again  who  I was, 
and  why  I came,  &c.  I wras  about  to  turn,  and  hasten 
from  a scene  so  painful,  when  the  physician  laid  his  hand 
on  my  sleeve — “ Stop,”  he  said,  “ there  is  a change.” 
There  was  indeed,  and  a marked  one.  A faint  glow 
spread  over  his  pallid  features — they  seemed  to  gain  the 
look  of  intelligence  which  belongs  to  vitality — his  eye 
once  more  kindled — his  lip  coloured — and  drawing  him- 
self up  out  of  the  listless  posture  he  had  hitherto  main- 
tained, he  rose  without  assistance.  The  doctor  and  the 
servant  ran  to  give  him  their  support.  He  waved  them 
aside,  and  they  were  contented  to  place  themselves  in 
such  a position  behind  as  might  ensure  against  accident, 
3 VOL.  1. 


26 


CHRONICLES  OF 


should  his  newly-acquired  strength  decay  as  suddenly  as 
it  had  revived. 

“ My  dear  Croftangry,”  he  said,  in  the  tone  of  kind- 
ness of  other  days,  “ I am  glad  to  see  you  returned — 
You  find  me  but  poorly — but  my  little  niece  here  and 

Dr. — are  very  kind — God  bless  you,  my  dear 

friend  ! we  shall  not  meet  again  till  we  meet  in  a better 
world.” 

I pressed  his  extended  hand  to  my  lips — I pressed  it 
to  my  bosom — I would  fain  have  flung  myself  on  rny 
knees  ; but  the  doctor,  leaving  the  patient  to  the  young 
lady  and  the  servant,  who  wheeled  forward  his  chair,  and 
were  replacing  him  in  it,  hurried  me  out  of  the  room. 
“ My  dear  sir,”  he  said,  “ you  ought  to  be  satisfied  ; you 
have  seen  our  poor  invalid  more  like  his  former  self  than 
he  has  been  for  months,  or  than  he  may  be  perhaps  again 
until  all  is  over.  The  whole  Faculty  could  not  have  as- 
sured such  an  interval — 3 must  see  whether  anything  can 
be  derived  from  it  to  improve  the  general  health — Pray, 
begone.”  The  last  argument  hurried  me  from  the  spot, 
agitated  by  a crowd  of  feelings,  all  of  them  painful. 

When  I had  overcome  the  shock  of  this  great  disap- 
pointment, I renewed  gradually  my  acquaintance  with  one 
or  two  old  companions,  who,  though  of  infinitely  less  in- 
terest to  my  feelings  than  my  unfortunate  friend,  served  to 
relieve  the  pressure  of  actual  solitude,  and  who  were  not 
perhaps  the  less  open  to  my  advances,  that  I was  a bach- 
elor somewhat  stricken  in  years,  newly  arrived  from  for- 
eign parts,  and  certainly  independent,  if  not  wealthy. 

1 was  considered  as  a tolerable  subject  of  speculation 
by  some,  and  1 could  not  be  burdensome  to  any  : I was 
therefore,  according  to  the  ordinary  rule  of  Edinburgh 
hospitality,  a welcome  guest  in  several  respectable  fami- 
lies ; but  I found  no  one  who  could  replace  the  loss  I had 
sustained  in  my  best  friend  and  benefactor.  I wanted 
something  more  than  mere  companionship  could  give  me, 
and  where  was  I to  look  for  it  9 — among  the  scattered 


THE  CANONGATE. 


27 


remnants  of  those  that  had  been  my  gay  friends  of  yore  ? 
— alas  ! 

Many  a lad  I loved  was  dead, 

And  many  a lass  grown  old. 

Besides,  all  community  of  ties  between  us  had  ceased  to 
exist,  and  such  of  my  former  friends  as  were  still  in  the 
world,  held  their  life  in  a different  tenor  from  what  1 did. 

Some  had  become  misers,  and  \vere  as  eager  in  saving 
sixpence  as  ever  they  had  been  in  spending  a guinea. 
Some  had  turned  agriculturists — their  talk  was  of  oxen, 
and  they  were  only  fit  companions  for  graziers.  Some 
stuck  to  cards,  and  though  no  longer  deep  gamblers,  rather 
played  small  game  than  sat  out.  This  1 particularly  de- 
spised. The  strong  impulse  of  gaming,  alas  ! 1 had  felt 
in  my  time — it  is  as  intense  as  it  is  criminal  ; but  it  pro- 
duces excitation  and  interest,  and  I can  conceive  how  it 
should  become  a passion  with  strong  and  powerful  minds. 
But  to  dribble  away  life  in  exchanging  bits  of  painted 
pasteboard  round  a green  table,  for  the  piddling  concern 
of  a few  shillings,  can  only  be  excused  in  folly  or  super- 
annuation. It  is  like  riding  on  a rocking-horse,  where 
your  utmost  exertion  never  carries  you  a foot  forward  ; 
it  is  a kind  of  mental  tread-mill,  where  you  are  perpetu- 
ally climbing,  but  can  never  rise  an  inch.  From  these 
hints,  my  readers  will  perceive  I am  incapacitated  for  one 
of  the  pleasures  of  old  age,  which,  though  not  mentioned 
by  Cicero,  is  not  the  least  frequent  resource  in  the  present 
day — the  club-room,  and  the  snug  hand  at  whist. 

To  return  to  my  old  companions  : Some  frequented 
public  assemblies,  like  the  ghost  of  Beau  Nash,  or  any 
other  beau  of  half  a century  back,  thrust  aside  by  titter- 
ing youth,  and  pitied  by  those  of  their  own  age.  In  fine, 
some  went  into  devotion,  as  the  French  term  it,  and  others, 
I fear,  went  to  the  devil  ; a few  found  resources  in  sci- 
ence and  letters  ; one  or  two  turned  philosophers  in  a 
small  way,  peeped  into  microscopes,  and  became  familiar 
with  the  fashionable  experiments  of  the  day.  Some  took 
to  reading,  and  I was  one  of  them. 


28 


CHRONICLES  OF 


Some  grains  of  repulsion  towards  the  society  around 
me — some  painful  recollections  of  early  faults  and  follies 
— some  touch  of  displeasure  with  living  mankind,  inclin- 
ed me  rather  to  a study  of  antiquities,  and  particularly 
those  of  my  own  country.  The  reader,  if  1 can  prevail 
on  myself  to  continue  the  present  work,  will  probably  be 
able  to  judge,  in  the  course  of  it,  whether  I have  made 
any  useful  progress  in  the  study  of  the  olden  times. 

1 owed  this  turn  of  study,  in  part,  to  the  conversation 
of  my  kind  man  of  business,  Mr.  Fairscribe,  whom  I 
mentioned  as  having  seconded  the  efforts  of  my  invalua- 
ble friend,  in  bringing  the  cause  on  which  my  liberty  and 
the  remnant  of  my  property  depended,  to  a favourable 
decision.  He  had  given  me  a most  kind  reception  on  my 
return.  He  was  too  much  engaged  in  his  profession  for 
me  to  intrude  on  him  often,  and  perhaps  his  mind  was 
too  much  trammelled  with  its  details  to  permit  his  being 
willingly  withdrawn  from  them.  In  short,  he  was  not  a 

person  of  my  poor  friend  ’s  expanded  spirit,  and 

rather  a lawyer  of  the  ordinary  class  of  formalists,  but  a 
most  able  and  excellent  man.  When  my  estate  was  sold, 
he  retained  some  of  the  older  title-deeds,  arguing,  from 
his  own  feelings,  that  they  would  be  of  more  consequence 
to  the  heir  of  the  old  family  than  to  the  new  purchaser. 
And  when  I returned  to  Edinburgh,  and  found  him  still 
in  the  exercise  of  the  profession  to  which  he  was  an  hon- 
our, he  sent  to  my  lodgings  the  old  family-hible,  which  lay 
always  on  my  father’s  table,  two  or  three  other  mouldy 
volumes,  and  a couple  of  sheep-skin  bags,  full  of  parch- 
ments and  papers,  whose  appearance  was  by  no  means 
inviting. 

The  next  time  1 shared  Mr.  Fairscribe’s  hospitable 
dinner,  I failed  not  to  return  him  due  thanks  for  his  kind- 
ness, which  acknowledgment,  indeed,  I proportioned 
rather  to  the  idea  which  I knew  he  entertained  of  the 
value  of  such  things,  than  to  the  interest  with  which  I 
myself  regarded  them.  But  the  conversation  turning  on 
my  family,  who  were  old  proprietors  in  the  Upper  Ward 
of  Clydesdale,  gradually  excited  some  interest  in  my 


THE  CANONGATE. 


29 


mind  ; and  when  I retired  to  my  solitary  parlour,  the  first 
thing  I did  was  to  look  for  a pedigree,  or  sort  of  history 
of  the  family,  or  House  of  Croftangry,  once  of  that  Ilk, 
latterly  of  Glentanner.  The  discoveries  which  I made 
shall  enrich  the  next  chapter. 


CHAPTER  II. 

11  What’s  property,  dear  Swift  ? I see  it  alter 
From  you  to  me,  from  me  to  Peter  Walter. 

Pope. 

“ Croftangry — Croftandrew — Croftanridge — Croft- 
andgrey — for  sa  rnony  wise  hath  the  name  been  spellit — 
is  weel  known  to  be  ane  house  of  grit  antiquity  ; and  it 
is  said,  that  King  Milcolumb,  or  Malcolm,  being  the  first 
of  our  Scottish  princes  quha  removit  across  the  Firth  of 
Forth,  did  reside  and  occupy  ane  palace  at  Edinburgh, 
and  had  there  ane  valziant  man,  who  did  him  man-service, 
by  keeping  the  croft,  or  corn-land,  which  was  tilled  for 
the  convenience  of  the  King’s  household,  and  was  thence 
callit  Croft-an-ri,  that  is  to  say,  the  King  his  croft ; quhilk 
place,  though  now  coverit  with  biggings,  is  to  this  day 
called  Croftangry,  and  lyeth  near  to  the  royal  palace. 
And  whereas  that  some  of  those  who  bear  this  auld  and 
honourable  name  may  take  scorn  that  it  ariseth  from  the 
tilling  of  the  ground,  quhilk  men  account  a slavish  occu- 
pation, yet  we  ought  to  honour  the  pleugh  and  spade, 
seeing  we  all  derive  our  being  from  our  father  Adam, 
wdiose  lot  it  became  to  cultivate  the  earth,  in  respect  of 
his  fall  and  transgression. 

“ Also  we  have  witness,  as  weel  in  holy  writt  as  in 
profane  history,  of  the  honour  in  quhilk  husbandrie  was 
held  of  old,  and  how  prophets  have  been  taken  from  the 
pleugh,  and  great  captains  raised  up  to  defend  their  ain 
3*  VOL.  I. 


30 


CHRONICLES  OF 


countries,  sic  as  Cincinnatus,  and  the  like,  who  fought  not 
the  common  enemy  with  the  less  valiancy  that  their  arms 
had  been  exercized  in  balding  the  stilts  of  the  pleugh, 
and  their  bellicose  skill  in  driving  of  yauds  and  owsen. 

“ Likewise  there  are  sindry  honourable  families,  quhilk 
are  now  of  our  native  Scottish  nobility,  and  have  clombe 
higher  up  the  brae  of  preferment  than  what  this  house  of 
Croftangry  hath  done,  quhilk  shame  not  to  carry  in  their 
warlike  shield  and  insignia  of  dignity,  the  tools  and  imple- 
ments the  quhilk  their  first  forefathers  exercised  in  labour- 
ing the  croft-rig,  or,  as  the  poet  Virgilius  calleth  it  elo- 
quently, in  subduing  the  soil.  And  no  doubt  this  ancient 
house  of  Croftangry,  while  it  continued  to  be  called  of 
that  Ilk,  produced  many  worshipful  and  famous  patriots, 
of  quhom  I now  prsetermit  the  names  ; it  being  my  pur- 
pose, if  God  shall  spare  me  life  for  sic  ane  pious  officium, 
or  duty,  to  resume  the  first  part  of  my  narrative  touching 
the  House  of  Croftangry,  when  I can  set  down  at  length 
the  evidents,  and  historical  witness  anent  the  facts  which 
J shall  allege,  seeing  that  words,  when  they  are  unsup- 
ported by  proofs,  are  like  seed  sown  on  the  naked  rocks, 
or  like  an  house  biggit  on  the  flitting  and  faithless  sands.” 

Here  I stopped  to  draw  breath  ; for  the  style  of  my 
grandsire,  the  inditer  of  this  goodly  matter,  was  rather 
lengthy,  as  our  American  friends  say.  Indeed,  I reserve 
the  rest  of  the  piece  until  I can  obtain  admission  to  the 
Bannatyne  Club,  when  I propose  to  throw  off  an  edition, 
limited  according  to  the  rules  of  that  erudite  Society,  with 
a fac-simile  of  the  manuscript,  emblazonry  of  the  family 
arms,  surrounded  by  their  quartering,  and  a handsome 
disclamation  of  family  pride,  with  Hac  nos  novimus  esse 
nihil , or  Vix  ea  nostra  voco. 

In  the  meantime,  to  speak  truth,  I cannot  but  suspect, 
that  though  my  worthy  ancestor  puffed  vigorously  to  swell 
up  the  dignity  of  his  family,  we  had  never,  in  fact,  risen 
above  the  rank  of  middling  proprietors.  The  estate  of 
Glentanner  came  to  us  by  the  intermarriage  of  my  ances- 
tor with  Tib  Sommeril,  termed  by  the  southrons  Som-* 
merville,  a daughter  of  that  noble  house,  but  I fear  on 


THE  CANONGATE. 


31 


what  my  great-grandsire  calls  “ the  wrong  side  of  the 
blanket.”  Her  husband,  Gilbert,  was  killed  fighting,  as 
the  Inquisitio  post  mortem  has  it,  “ sub  vexillo  regis , apud 
prcelium  juxta  Branxton , lie  Floddenfield .” 

We  had  our  share  in  other  national  misfortunes — were 
forfeited,  like  Sir  John  Colville  of  the  Dale,  for  following 
our  betters  to  the  field  of  Langside  ; and  in  the  conten- 
tious times  of  the  last  Stuarts,  we  were  severely  fined  for 
harbouring  and  resetting  intercommuned  ministers  ; and 
narrowly  escaped  giving  a martyr  to  the  Calendar  of  the 
Covenant,  in  the  person  of  the  father  of  our  family  his- 
torian. He  “ took  the  sheaf  from  the  mare,”  however, 
as  the  MS.  expresses  it,  and  agreed  to  accept  of  the 
terms  of  pardon  offered  by  government,  and  sign  the  bond, 
in  evidence  he  would  give  no  farther  ground  of  offence. 
My  grandsire  glosses  over  his  father’s  backsliding  as 
smoothly  as  he  can,  and  comforts  himself  with  ascribing 
his  want  of  resolution  to  his  unwillingness  to  wreck  the 
ancient  name  and  family,  and  to  permit  his  lands  and  lin- 
eage to  fall  under  a doom  of  forfeiture. 

“ And  indeed,”  said  the  venerable  compiler,  “ as,  prais- 
ed be  God,  we  seldom  meet  in  Scotland  with  these  belly- 
gods  and  voluptuaries,  whilk  are  unnatural  enough  to 
devour  their  patrimony  bequeathed  to  them  by  their  for- 
bears in  chambering  and  wantonness,  so  that  they  come, 
with  the  prodigal  son,  to  the  husks  and  the  swine-trough  ; 
and  as  I have  the  less  to  dreid  the  existence  of  such  un- 
natural Neroes  in  mine  own  family  to  devour  the  substance 
of  their  own  house  like  the  brute  beasts  out  of  mere  glut- 
tonie  and  Epicurishnesse,  so  I need  only  warn  mine  de- 
scendants against  over  hastily  meddling  with  the  mutations 
in  state  and  in  religion,  which  have  been  near-hand  to  the 
bringing  this  poor  house  of  Croftangry  to  perdition,  as 
we  have  shown  more  than  once.  And  albeit  I would  not 
that  my  successors  sat  still  altogether  when  called  on  by 
their  duty  to  Kirk  and  King  ; yet  I would  have  them  wait 
till  stronger  and  walthier  men  nor  themselves  were  up,  so 
that  either  they  may  have  the  better  chance  of  getting 
through  the  day  ; or,  failing  of  that,  the  conquering  party 


32 


CHRONICLES  OF 


having  some  fatter  quarry  to  live  upon,  may,  like  gorged 
hawks,  spare  the  smaller  game.” 

There  was  something  in  this  conclusion  which  at  first 
reading  piqued  me  extremely,  and  I was  so  unnatural  as 
to  curse  the  whole  concern,  as  poor,  bald,  pitiful  trash,  in 
which  a silly  old  man  w7as  saying  a great  deal  about  noth- 
ing at  all.  Nay,  my  first  impression  was  to  thrust  it  into 
the  fire,  the  rather  that  it  reminded  me,  in  no  very  flat- 
tering manner,  of  the  loss  of  the  family  property,  to 
which  the  compiler  of  the  history  was  so  much  attached, 
in  the  very  manner  which  he  most  severely  reprobated. 
It  even  seemed  to  my  aggrieved  feelings,  that  his  unpre- 
scient  gaze  on  futurity,  in  which  he  could  not  anticipate 
the  folly  of  one  of  his  descendants,  who  should  throw 
away  the  whole  inheritance  in  a few  years  of  idle  expense 
and  folly,  was  meant  as  a personal  incivility  to  myself, 
though  written  fifty  or  sixty  years  before  I was  born. 

A little  reflection  made  me  ashamed  of  this  feeling  of 
impatience,  and  as  I looked  at  the  even,  concise,  yet  trem- 
ulous hand  in  which  the  manuscript  w as  written,  I could 
not  help  thinking,  according  to  an  opinion  I have  heard 
seriously  maintained,  that  something  of  a man’s  character 
may  be  conjectured  from  his  handwriting.  That  neat, 
but  crowded  and  constrained  small  hand,  argued  a man 
of  a good  conscience,  well  regulated  passions,  and,  to  use 
his  own  phrase,  an  upright  walk  in  life  ; but  it  also  indi- 
cated narrowness  of  spirit,  inveterate  prejudice,  and  hint- 
ed at  some  degree  of  intolerance,  which,  though  not 
natural  to  the  disposition,  had  arisen  out  of  a limited  edu- 
cation. The  passages  from  Scripture  and  the  classics, 
rather  profusely  than  happily  introduced,  and  written  in  a 
half-text  character  to  mark  their  importance,  illustrated 
that  peculiar  sort  of  pedantry  which  always  considers  the 
argument  as  gained,  if  secured  by  a quotation.  Then  the 
flourished  capital  letters,  which  ornamented  the  com- 
mencement of  each  paragraph,  and  the  name  of  his  fam- 
ily and  of  his  ancestors,  whenever  these  occurred  in  the 
page,  do  they  not  express  forcibly  the  pride  and  sense  of 
importance  with  which  the  author  undertook  and  accom- 


TIIE  CANONGATE. 


33 


plished  his  task  ? 1 persuaded  myself,  the  whole  was  so 
complete  a portrait  of  the  man,  that  it  would  not  have  been 
a more  undutiful  act  to  have  defaced  his  picture,  or  even 
to  have  disturbed  his  bones  in  his  coflin,  than  to  destroy 
his  manuscript.  1 thought,  for  a moment,  of  presenting 
it  to  Mr.  Fairscribe;  but  that  confounded  passage  about 
the  prodigal  and  swine-trough — I settled  at  last  it  was  as 
well  to  lock  it  up  in  my  own  bureau,  with  the  intention 
to  look  at  it  no  more. 

But  1 do  not  know  how  it  was,  that  the  subject  began 
to  sit  nearer  my  heart  than  I was  aware  of,  and  I found 
myself  repeatedly  engaged  in  reading  descriptions  of 
farms  which  were  no  longer  mine,  and  boundaries  which 
marked  the  property  of  others.  A love  of  the  natale 
solum , if  Swift  be  right  in  translating  these  words,  “ fam- 
ily estate,”  began  to  awaken  in  my  bosom  ; the  recollec- 
tions of  my  own  youth  adding  little  to  it,  save  what  was 
connected  with  field  sports.  A career  of  pleasure  is  un- 
favourable for  acquiring  a taste  for  natural  beauty,  and 
still  more  so  for  forming  associations  of  a sentimental  kind, 
connecting  us  with  the  inanimate  objects  around  us. 

I had  thought  little  about  my  estate,  while  I possessed 
and  was  wasting  it,  unless  as  affording  the  rude  materials 
out  of  which  a certain  inferior  race  of  creatures,  called 
tenants,  were  bound  to  produce  (in  a greater  quantity  than 
they  actually  did)  a certain  return  called  rent,  which  was 
destined  to  supply  my  expenses.  This  was  my  general 
view  of  the  matter.  Of  particular  places,  1 recollected 
that  Garval-hill  was  a famous  piece  of  rough  upland  pas- 
ture, for  rearing  young  colts,  and  teaching  them  to  throw 
their  feet, — that  Minion-burn  had  the  finest  yellow  trout 
in  the  country,— that  Seggycleugh  was  unequalled  for 
woodcocks, — that  Ben-gibbert  moors  afforded  excellent 
moorfowl-shooting,  and  that  the  clear  bubbling  fountain 
called  the  Harper’s  Well,  was  the  best  recipe  in  the  world 
on  the  morning  after  a Hard-go  with  my  neighbour  fox- 
hunters.  Still  these  ideas  recalled,  by  degrees,  pictures, 
of  which  I had  since  learned  to  appreciate  the  merit — 
scenes  of  silent  loneliness,  where  extensive  moors,  undu- 


34 


CHRONICLES  OF 


lating  into  wild  hills,  were  only  disturbed  by  the  whistle 
of  the  plover,  or  the  crow  of  the  heath-cock  ; wild  ravines 
creeping  up  into  mountains,  filled  with  natural  wood,  and 
which,  when  traced  downwards  along  the  path  formed  by 
shepherds  and  nutters,  were  found  gradually  to  enlarge 
and  deepen,  as  each  formed  a channel  to  its  own  brook, 
sometimes  bordered  by  steep  banks  of  earth,  often  with 
the  more  romantic  boundary  of  naked  rocks  or  cliffs, 
crested  with  oak,  mountain-ash,  and  hazel, — all  gratify- 
ing the  eye  the  more  that  the  scenery  was,  from  the  bare 
nature  of  the  country  around,  totally  unexpected. 

I had  recollections,  too,  of  fair  and  fertile  holms,  or 
level  plains,  extending  between  the  wooded  banks  and  the 
bold  stream  of  the  Clyde,  which,  coloured  like  pure  am- 
ber, or  rather  having  the  hue  of  the  pebbles  called  Cairn- 
gorm, rushes  over  sheets  of  rock  and  beds  of  gravel, 
inspiring  a species  of  awe  from  the  few  and  faithless  fords 
which  it  presents,  and  the  frequency  of  fatal  accidents, 
now  diminished  by  the  number  of  new  bridges.  These 
alluvial  holms  were  frequently  bordered  by  triple  and 
quadruple  rows  of  immensely  large  trees,  which  gracefully 
marked  their  boundary,  and  dipped  their  long  arms  into 
the  foaming  stream  of  the  river. — Other  places  I remem- 
bered, which  had  been  described  by  the  old  huntsman  as 
the  lodge  of  tremendous  wild-cats,  or  the  spot  where  tra- 
dition stated  the  mighty  stag  to  have  been  brought  to  bay, 
or  where  heroes,  whose  might  was  now  as  much  forgot- 
ten, were  said  to  have  been  slain  by  surprise,  or  in  battle. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  these  finished  landscapes 
became  visible  before  the  eyes  of  my  imagination,  as  the 
scenery  of  the  stage  is  disclosed  by  the  rising  of  the  cur- 
tain. I have  said,  that  J had  looked  upon  the  country 
around  me,  during  the  hurried  and  dissipated  period  of 
my  life,  with  the  eyes  indeed  of  my  body,  but  without 
those  of  my  understanding.  It  was  piece  by  piece,  as  a 
child  picks  out  its  lesson,  that  I began  to  recollect  the 
beauties  of  nature  which  had  once  surrounded  me  in  the 
home  of  my  forefathers.  A natural  taste  for  them  must 
have  lurked  at  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  which  awakened 


THE  CANON  GATE. 


35 


when  I was  in  foreign  countries,  and  becoming  by  degrees 
a favourite  passion,  gradually  turned  its  eyes  inwards,  and 
ransacked  the  neglected  stores  which  my  memory  had 
involuntarily  recorded,  and  when  excited,  exerted  herself 
to  collect  and  to  complete. 

I began  now  to  regret  more  bitterly  than  ever  the  hav- 
ing fooled  away  my  family  properly,  the  care  and  im- 
provement of  which  I saw  might  have  afforded  an  agree- 
able employment  for  my  leisure,  .which  only  went  to  brood 
on  past  misfortunes,  and  increase  useless  repining.  “ Had 
but  a single  farm  been  reserved,  however  small,”  said  I 
one  day  to  Mr.  Fairscribe,  “ I should  have  had  a place 
I could  call  my  home,  and  something  that  I could  call 
business.” 

“It  might  have  been  managed,”  answered  Fairscribe; 
“ and  for  my  part,  I inclined  to  keep  the  mansion-house, 
mains,  and  some  of  the  old  family  acres,  together  ; but 

both  Mr. and  you  were  of  opinion  that  the  money 

would  be  more  useful.” 

“True,  true,  my  good  friend,”  said  J,-“  I was  a fool 
then,  and  did  not  think  I could  incline  to  be  Glentanner 
with  £.200  or  £.300  a-year,  instead  of  Glentanner  with 
as  many  thousands.  I was  then  a haughty,  petted,  igno- 
rant, dissipated,  broken-down  Scotch  laird  ; and  thinking 
my  imaginary  consequence  altogether  ruined,  I cared  not 
how  soon,  or  how  absolutely,  I was  rid  of  every  thing  that 
recalled  it  to  my  own  memory,  or  that  of  others.” 

“ And  now  it  is  like  you  have  changed  your  mind  9” 
said  Fairscribe.  “ Well,  fortune  is  apt  to  circumduce  the 
term  upon  us  ; but  I think  she  may  allow  you  to  revise 
your  condescendence.” 

“ How  do  you  mean,  my  good  friend  9” 

“ Nay,”  said  Fairscribe,  “ there  is  ill  luck  in  averring 
till  one  is  sure  of  his  facts.  I will  look  back  on  a file  of 
newspapers,  and  to-morrow  you  shall  hear  from  me ; come, 
help  yourself — I have  seen  you  fill  your  glass  higher.” 
“And  shall  see  it  again,”  said  I,  pouring  out  what  re- 
mained of  our  bottle  of  claret ; “ the  wine  is  capital,  and 
so  shall  our  toast  be — To  your  fireside,  my  good  friend. 


3G 


CHRONICLES  OF 


And  now  we  shall  go  beg  a Scots  song  without  foreign 
graces,  from  my  little  siren  Miss  Kattie.” 

The  next  day  accordingly  1 received  a parcel  from 
Mr.  Fairseribe  with  a newspaper  enclosed,  among  the 
advertisements  of  which,  one  was  marked  with  a cross  as 
requiring  my  attention.  I read  to  my  surprise — 

“ DESIRABLE  ESTATE  FOR  SALE. 

“ By  order  of  the  Lords  of  Council  and  Session,  will 
be  exposed  to  sale  in  the  New  Sessions  House  of  Edin- 
burgh, upon  Wednesday  the  25th  November  18 — , all 
and  whole  the  lands  and  barony  of  Glentanner,  now  called 
Castle-Treddles,  lying  in  the  Middle  Ward  of  Clydesdale, 
and  shire  of  Lanark,  with  the  teinds,  parsonage  and  vic- 
arage, fishings  in  the  Clyde,  woods,  mosses,  moors,  and 
pasturages,”  he.  he. 

The  advertisement  went  on  to  set  forth  the  advantages 
of  the  soil,  situation,  natural  beauties  and  capabilities  of 
improvement,  not  forgetting  its  being  a freehold  estate, 
with  the  particular  polypus  capacity  of  being  sliced  up  into 
two,  three,  or,  with  a little  assistance,  four  freehold  qual- 
ifications, and  a hint  that  the  county  was  likely  to  be 
eagerly  contested  between  two  great  families.  The- upset 
price  at  which  “ the  said  lands  and  barony  and  others” 
were  to  be  exposed,  was  thirty  years’  purchase  of  the 
proven  rental,  which  was  about  a fourth  more  than  the 
property  had  fetched  at  the  last  sale.  This,  which  was 
mentioned,  1 suppose  to  snow  the  improvable  character 
of  the  land,  would  have  given  another  some  pain  ; but  let 
me  speak  truth  of  myself  in  good  as  in  evil — it  pained  not 
me.  1 was  only  angry  that  Fairseribe,  who  knew  some- 
thing generally  of  the  extent  of  my  funds,  should  have 
tantalized  me  by  sending  me  information  that  my  family 
property  was  in  the  market,  since  he  must  have  known 
that  the  price  was  far  out  of  my  reach. 

But  a letter  dropped  from  the  parcel  on  the  floor,  which 
attracted  my  eye,  and  explained  the  riddle.  A client  of 
Mr.  Fairscribe’s,  a monied  man,  thought  of  buying  Glen- 


THE  CANON G ATE. 


37 


tanner,  merely  as  an  investment  of  money — it  was  even 
unlikely  he  would  ever  see  it ; and  so  the  price  of  the 
whole  being  some  thousand  pounds  beyond  what  cash  he 
had  on  hand,  this  accommodating  Dives  would  gladly  take 
a partner  in  the  sale  for  any  detached  farm,  and  would 
make  no  objection  to  its  including  the  most  desirable  part 
of  the  estate  in  point  of  beauty,  providing  that  the  price 
was  made  adequate.  Mr.  Fairscribe  would  take  care  I 
was  not  imposed  on  in  the  matter,  and  said  in  his  card,  he 
believed,  if  1 really  wished  to  make  such  a purchase,  I 
had  better  go  out  and  look  at  the  premises,  advising  me, 
at  the  same  time,  to  keep  a strict  incognito  ; an  advice 
somewhat  superfluous,  since  1 am  naturally  of  a retired 
and  reserved  disposition. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Then  sing  of  stage-coaches, 

And  fear  no  reproaches 
For  riding  in  one  ; 

But  daily  be  jogging, 

Whilst,  whistling  and  flogging, 

Whilst,  whistling  and  flogging, 

The  coachman  drives  on. 

Farquhar . 

Disguised  in  a grey  surtout  which  had  seen  service, 
a white  castor  on  my  head,  and  a stout  Indian  cane  in  my 
hand,  the  next  week  saw  me  on  the  top  of  a mail-coach 
driving  to  the  westward. 

I like  mail-coaches,  and  I hate  them.  I like  them  for 
my  convenience,  but  I detest  them  for  setting  the  whole 
world  a-gadding,  instead  of  sitting  quietly  still  minding 
their  own  business,  and  preserving  the  stamp  of  originality 
of  character  which  nature  or  education  may  have  impres- 
4 VOL.  I. 


38 


CHRONICLES  OF 


sed  on  them.  Off  they  go,  jingling  against  each  other  in 
the  rattling  vehicle  till  they  have  no  more  variety  of  stamp 
in  them  than  so  many  smooth  shillings — the  same  even  in 
their  Welsh  wigs  and  great  coats,  each  without  more  in- 
dividuality than  belongs  to  a partner  of  the  company,  as 
the  waiter  calls  them,  of  the  North  coach. 

Worthy  Mr.  Piper,  best  of  contractors  who  ever  fur- 
nished four  frampal  jades  for  public  use,  I bless  you  when 
I set  out  on  a journey  myself;  the  neat  coaches  under 
your  contract  render  the  intercourse,  from  Johnie  Groat’s 
house  to  Ladykirk  and  Cornhill  Bridge,  safe,  pleasant, 
and  cheap.  But,  Mr.  Piper,  you,  who  are  a shrewd 
arithmetician,  did  it  never  occur  to  you  to  calculate  how 
many  fool’s  heads,  which  might  have  produced  an  idea  or 
two  in  the  year,  if  suffered  to  remain  in  quiet,  get  effect- 
ually addled  by  jolting  to  and  fro  in  these  flying  chariots 
of  yours  ; how  many  decent  countrymen  become  con- 
ceited bumpkins  after  a cattle-show  dinner  in  the  capital, 
which  they  could  not  have  attended  save  for  your  means ; 
how  many  decent  country  parsons  return  critics  and 
spouters,  by  way  of  importing  the  newest  taste  from  Edin- 
burgh % And  how  will  your  conscience  answer  one  day 
for  carrying  so  many  bonny  lasses  to  barter  modesty  for 
conceit  and  levity  at  the  metropolitan  Vanity  Fair  9 

Consider,  too,  the  low  rate  to  which  you  reduce  human 
intellect.  1 do  not  believe  your  habitual  customers  have 
their  ideas  more  enlarged  than  one  of  your  coach-horses. 
They  knows  the  road,  like  the  English  postillion,  and  they 
know  nothing  beside.  They  date,  like  the  carriers  at 
Gadshill,  from  the  death  of  John  Ostler  ; the  succession 
of  guards  forms  a dynasty  in  their  eyes  ; coachmen  are 
their  ministers  of  state,  and  an  upset  is  to  them  a greater 
incident  than  a change  of  administration.  Their  only 
point  of  interest  on  the  road  is  to  save  the  time,  and  see 
whether  the  coach  keeps  the  hour.  This  is  surely  a mis- 
erable degradation  of  human  intellect.  Take  my  advice, 
my  good  sir,  and  disinterestedly  contrive  that  once  or  twice 
a quarter,  your  most  dexterous  whip  shall  overturn  a 
coachful  of  these  superfluous  travellers,  in  terrorem  to 


THE  CANON GATE. 


39 


those  who,  as  Horace  says,  “ delight  in  the  dust  raised 
by  your  chariots.” 

Your  current  and  customary  mail-coach  passenger,  too, 
gets  abominably  selfish,  schemes  successfully  for  the  best 
seat,  the  freshest  egg,  the  right  cut  of  the  sirloin.  The 
mode  of  travelling  is  death  to  all  the  courtesies  and  kind- 
nesses of  life,  and  goes  a great  way  to  demoralize  the 
character,  and  cause  it  to  retrograde  to  barbarism.  You 
allow  us  excellent  dinners,  but  pnly  twenty  minutes  to  eat 
them  ; and  what  is  the  consequence  Bashful  beauty  sits 
on  the  one  side  of  us,  timid  childhood  on  the  other  ; re- 
spectable, yet  somewhat  feeble  old  age  is  placed  on  our 
front  ; and  all  require  those  acts  of  politeness  which  ought 
to  put  every  degree  upon  a level  at  the  convivial  board. 
But  have  we  time — we  the  strong  and  active  of  the  party 
— to  perform  the  duties  of  the  table  to  the  more  retired 
and  bashful,  to  whom  these  little  attentions  are  due  The 
lady  should  be  pressed  to  her  chicken — the  old  man  help- 
ed to  his  favourite  and  tender  slice — the  child  to  his  tart. 
But  not  a fraction  of  a minute  have  we  to  bestow  on  any 
other  person  than  ourselves  ; and  the  prut  prut — tut-tut 
of  the  guard’s  discordant  note,  summons  us  to  the  coach, 
the  weaker  party  having  gone  without  their  dinner,  and 
the  able-bodied  and  active  threatened  with  indigestion 
from  having  swallowed  victuals  like  a Lei’stershire  clown 
bolting  bacon. 

On  the  memorable  occasion  lam  speaking  of  I lost  my 
breakfast,  sheerly  from  obeying  the  commands  of  a re- 
spectable-looking old  lady,  who  once  required  me  to  ring 
the  bell,  and  another  time  to  help  the  tea-kettle.  I have 
some  reason  to  think  she  was  literally  an  old  Stager , who 
laughed  in  her  sleeve  at  my  complaisance  ; so  that  I have 
sworn  in  my  secret  soul  revenge  upon  her  sex,  and  all 
such  errant  damsels  of  whatever  age  and  degree,  whom  I 
may  encounter  in  my  travels.  I mean  all  this  without  the 
least  ill-will  to  my  friend  the  contractor,  who,  I think,  has 
approached  as  near  as  any  one  is  like  to  do  towards  ac- 


40 


CHRONICLES  OF 


complishing  the  modest  wish  of  the  Amatus  and  Amata 
of  the  Peri  Bathos, 

Ye  gods,  annihilate  but  time  and  space, 

And  make  two  lovers  happy. 

I intend  to  give  Mr.  P.  his  full  revenge  when  I come 
to  discuss  the  more  recent  enormity  of  steam-boats  ; 
meanwhile,  I shall  only  say  of  both  these  modes  of  con- 
veyance, that 

There  is  no  living  with  them  or  without  them. 

I am  perhaps  more  critical  on  the  — 1 — mail-coach  on 
this  particular  occasion,  that  I did  not  meet  all  the  respect 
from  the  worshipful  company  in  his  Majesty’s  carriage 
that  I think  I was  entitled  to.  I must  say  it  for  myself, 
that  I bear,  in  my  own  opinion  at  least,  not  a vulgar  point 
about  me.  My  face  has  seen  service,  but  there  is  still  a 
good  set  of  teeth,  an  aquiline  nose,  and  a quick  grey  eye, 
set  a little  too  deep  under  the  eye-brow  ; and  a cue  of 
the  kind  once  called  military,  may  serve  to  show  that  my 
civil  occupations  have  been  sometimes  mixed  with  those 
of  war.  Nevertheless,  two  idle  young  fellows  in  the  ve- 
hicle, or  rather  on  the  top  of  it,  were  so  much  amused  with 
the  deliberation  which  I used  in  ascending  to  the  same 
place  of  eminence,  that  I thought  I should  have  been 
obliged  to  pull  them  up  a little.  And  I was  in  no  good- 
humour,  at  an  unsuppressed  laugh  following  my  descent, 
when  set  down  at  the  angle,  where  a cross  road,  striking 
off  from  the  main  one,  led  me  towards  Glentanner,  from 
which  I was  still  nearly  five  miles  distant. 

It  was  an  old-fashioned  road,  which,  preferring  ascents 
to  sloughs,  was  led  in  a straight  line  over  height  and  hol- 
low, through  moor  and  dale.  Every  object  around  me, 
as  I passed  them  in  succession,  reminded  me  of  old  days, 
and  at  the  same  time  formed  the  strongest  contrast  with 
them  possible.  Unattended,  on  foot,  with  a small  bundle  in 
my  hand,  deemed  scarce  sufficient  goo  1 company  for  the 
two  shabby  genteels  with  whom  J had  been  lately  perched 
on  the  top  of  a mail-coach,  I did  not  seem  to  be  the  same 


TIIE  CANONGATE. 


41 


person  with  the  young  prodigal,  who  lived  with  the  noblest 
and  gayest  in  the  land,  and  who,  thirty  years  before, 
would,  in  the  same  country,  have  been  on  the  back  of  a 
horse  that  had  been  victor  for  a plate,  or  smoking  along 
in  his  travelling  chaise-and-four.  My  sentiments  were 
not  less  changed  than  my  condition.  I could  quite  well 
remember,  that  my  ruling  sensation  in  the  days  of  heady 
youth,  was  a mere  schoolboy’s  eagerness  to  get  farthest 
forward  in  the  race  in  which  1 had  engaged  ; to  drink  as 

many  bottles  as ; to  be  thought  as  good  a judge  of 

a horse  as ; to  have  the  knowing  cut  of  ’s 

jacket.  These  were  thy  gods,  O Israel  ! 

Now  I was  a mere  looker-on  ; seldom  an  unmoved, 
and  sometimes  an  angry  spectator,  but  still  a spectator 
only,  of  the  pursuits  of  mankind.  I felt  how  little  my 
opinion  was  valued  by  those  engaged  in  the  busy  turmoil, 
yet  1 exercised  it  with  the  profusion  of  an  old  lawyer  re- 
tired from  his  profession,  who  thrusts  himself  into  his 
neighbour’s  affairs,  and  gives  advice  where  it  is  not  want- 
ed, merely  under  pretence  of  loving  the  crack  of  the  whip. 

i came  amid  these  reflections  to  the  brow  of  a hill, 
from  which  I expected  to  see  Glentanner ; a modest- 
looking  yet  comfortable  house,  its  walls  covered  with  the 
most  productive  fruit  trees  in  that  part  of  the  country, 
and  screened  from  the  most  stormy  quarters  of  the  hori- 
zon by  a deep  and  ancient  wood,  which  overhung  the 
neighbouring  hill.  The  house  was  gone  ; a great  part  of 
the  wood  was  felled  ; and  instead  of  the  gentlemanlike 
mansion,  shrouded  and  embosomed  among  its  old  he- 
reditary trees,  stood  Castle-Treddles,  a huge  lumping  four- 
square pile  of  freestone,  as  bare  as  my  nail,  except  for  a 
paltry  edging  of  decayed  and  lingering  exotics,  with  an 
impoverished  lawn  stretched  before  it,  which,  instead  of 
boasting  deep  green  tapestry, enamelled  with  daisies,  and 
with  crowsfoot  and  cowslips,  showed  an  extent  of  naked- 
ness, raked,  indeed,  and  levelled,  but  where  the  sown 
grasses  had  failed  with  drought,  and  the  earth,  retaining 
4*  VOL.,  i. 


42 


CHRONICLES  OE 


its  natural  complexion,  seemed  nearly  as  brown  and  bare 
as  when  it  was  newly  dug  up. 

The  house  was  a large  fabric,  which  pretended  to  its 
name  of  Castle  only  from  the  front  windows  being  finish- 
ed in  acute  Gothic  arches  (being,  by  the  way,  the  very 
reverse  of  the  castellated  style),  and  each  angle  graced 
with  a turret  about  the  size  of  a pepper-box.  In  every 
other  respect  it  resembled  a large  town-house,  which,  like 
a fat  burgess,  had  taken  a walk  to  the  country  on  a holi- 
day, and  climbed  to  the  top  of  an  eminence  to  look  around 
it.  The  bright  red  colour  of  the  freestone,  the  size  of  the 
building,  the  formality  of  its  shape,  and  awkwardness  of 
its  position,  harmonized  as  ill  with  the  sweeping  Clyde  in 
front,  and  the  bubbling  brook  which  danced  down  on  the 
right,  as  the  fat  civic  form,  with  bushy  wig,  gold-headed 
cane,  maroon-coloured  coat,  and  mottled  silk  stockings, 
would  have  accorded  with  the  wild  and  magnificent  scene- 
ry of  Corehouse  Linn. 

I went  up  to  the  house.  It  was  in  that  state  of  deser- 
tion which  is  perhaps  the  most  unpleasant  to  look  on,  for 
the  place  was  going  to  decay,  without  having  been  inhab- 
ited. There  were  about  the  mansion,  though  deserted, 
none  of  the  slow  mouldering  touches  of  time,  which  com- 
municate to  buildings,  as  to  the  human  frame,  a sort  of 
reverence,  while  depriving  them  of  beauty  and  of  strength. 
The  disconcerted  schemes  of  the  Laird  of  Castle-Tred- 
dles,  had  resembled  fruit  that  becomes  decayed  without 
ever  having  ripened.  Some  windows  broken,  others 
patched,  others  blocked  up  with  deals,  gave  a disconso- 
late air  to  all  around,  and  seemed  to  say,  “ There  Vanity 
had  purposed  to  fix  her  seat,  but  was  anticipated  by 
Poverty.” 

To  the  inside,  after  many  a vain  summons,  I was  at 
length  admitted  by  an  old  labourer.  The  house  contain- 
ed every  contrivance  for  luxury  and  accommodation  ; — 
the  kitchens  were  a model,  and  there  were  hot  closets  on 
the  office  staircase,  that  the  dishes  might  not  cool,  as  our 
Scotch  phrase  goes,  between  the  kitchen  and  the  hall. 
But  instead  of  the  genial  smell  of  good  cheer,  these  tem- 


THE  CANONGATE. 


43 


pies  of  Comus  emitted  the  damp  odour  of  sepulchral  vaults, 
and  the  large  cabinets  of  cast-iron  looked  like  the  cages 
of  some  feudal  Bastille.  The  eating-room  and  drawing- 
room, with  an  interior  boudoir,  were  magnificent  apart- 
ments, the  ceilings  fretted  and  adorned  with  stucco-work, 
which  already  was  broken  in  many  places,  and  looked  in 
others  damp  and  mouldering  ; the  wood  pannelling  was 
shrunk  and  warped,  and  cracked  ; the  doors,  which  had 
not  been  hung  for  more  than  two  years,  were,  neverthe- 
less, already  swinging  loose  from  their  hinges.  Desola- 
tion, in  short,  was  where  enjoyment  had  never  been  ; and 
the  want  of  all  the  usual  means  to  preserve,  was  fast  per- 
forming the  work  of  decay. 

The  story  was  a common  one,  and  told  in  a few  words. 
Mr.  Treddles,  senior,  who  bought  the  estate,  was  a cau- 
tious money-making  person  ; his  son,  still  embarked  in 
commercial  speculations,  desired  at  the  same  time  to  en- 
joy his  opulence  and  to  increase  it.  He  incurred  great 
expenses,  amongst  which  this  edifice  was  to  be  numbered. 
To  support  these  he  speculated  boldly,  and  unfortunate- 
ly ; and  thus  the  whole  history  is  told,  which  may  serve 
for  more  places  than  Glentanner. 

Strange  and  various  feelings  ran  through  my  bosom,  as 
1 loitered  in  these  deserted  apartments,  scarce  hearing 
what  my  guide  said  to  me  about  the  size  and  destination 
of  each  room.  The  first  sentiment,  1 am  ashamed  to  say, 
was  one  of  gratified  spite.  My  patrician  pride  was  pleas- 
ed, that  the  mechanic,  who  had  not  thought  the  house  of 
the  Croftangrys  sufficiently  good  for  him,  had  now  ex- 
perienced a fall  in  his  turn.  My  next  thought  was  as 
mean,  though  not  so  malicious.  44  I have  had  the  better 
of  this  fellow,”  thought  1 ; 44  if  I lost  the  estate,  I at  least 
spent  the  price  ; and  Mr.  Treddles  has  lost  his  among 
paltry  commercial  engagements.” 

44  Wretch  !”  said  the  secret  voice  within,  44  darest  thou 
exult  in  thy  shame  9 Recollect  how  thy  youth  and  for- 
tune were  wasted  in  those  years,  and  triumph  not  in  the 
enjoyment  of  an  existence  which  levelled  thee  with  the 
beasts  that  perish.  Bethink  thee,  how  this  poor  man’s 


44 


CHRONICLES  OF 


vanity  gave  at  least  bread  to  the  labourer,  peasant,  and 
citizen  ; and  his  profuse  expenditure,  like  water  spilt  on 
the  ground,  refreshed  the  lowly  herbs  and  plants  where  it 
fell.  But  thou  ! whom  hast  thou  enriched,  during  thy 
career  of  extravagance,  save  those  brokers  of  the  devil, 
vintners,  panders,  gamblers,  and  horse-jockeys  V’  The 
anguish  produced  by  this  self-reproof  was  so  strong,  that 
I put  my  hand  suddenly  to  my  forehead,  and  was  obliged 
to  allege  a sudden  megrim  to  my  attendant,  in  apology 
for  the  action,  and  a slight  groan  with  which  it  was  ac- 
companied. 

I then  made  an  effort  to  turn  my  thoughts  into  a more 
philosophical  current,  and  muttered  half  aloud,  as  a charm 
to  lull  any  more  painful  thoughts  to  rest — 

Nunc  ager  Umbreni  sub  nomine,  nuper  Ofelli 
Dictus , erit  nulli  proprius  ; sed  cedet  in  usum 
Nunc  rnihi,  nunc  alii.  Quocirca  vivite  fortes , 

Fortiaque  adversis  opponite  pectora  rebus.* 

In  my  anxiety  to  fix  the  philosophical  precept  in  my  mind, 
I recited  the  last  line  aloud,  which,  joined  to  my  previous 
agitation,  I afterwards  found  became  the  cause  of  a re- 
port, that  a mad  schoolmaster  had  come  from  Edinburgh, 
with  the  idea  in  his  head  of  buying  Castle-Treddles. 

As  I saw  my  companion  was  desirous  of  getting  rid  of 
me,  I asked  where  I was  to  find  the  person  in  whose  hands 
were  left  the  map  of  the  estate,  and  other  particulars  con- 
nected with  the  sale.  The  agent  who  had  this  in  pos- 
session, I was  told,  lived  at  the  town  of — ; which 


* Horace,  Sat  n.  Lib.  2.  The  meaning  will  be  best  conveyed  to  the 
English  reader  iti  Pope’s  imitation  : — 

What’s  property,  dear  Swift  ? you  see  it  alter 
From  you  to  me,  from  me  to  Peter  Walter; 

Or  in  a mortgage  prove  a lawyer’s  share  ; 

Or  in  a jointure  vanish  from  the  heir. 

*.#*#  #**# 

Shades,  that  to  Bacon  could  retreat  afford, 

Become  the  portion  of  a booby  lord  ; 

A nd  Helmsiev,  once  proud  Buckingham’s  delight, 

Slides  to  a scrivener  and  city  knight. 

Let  lands  and  houses  have  what  lords  they  will, 

Let  us  be  fix’d,  and  our  own  masters  still. 


THE  CANONGATE. 


45 


1 was  informed,  and  indeed  knew  well,  was  distant  five 
miles  and  a bittock,  which  may  pass  in  a country  where 
they  are  less  lavish  of  their  laud,  for  two  or  three  more. 
Being  somewhat  afraid  of  the  fatigue  of  walking  so  far,  I 
inquired  if  a horse,  or  any  sort  of  carriage,  was  to  be  had, 
and  was  answered  in  the  negative. 

“ But,”  said  my  cicerone,  “ you  may  halt  a blink  till 
next  morning  at  the  Treddles  Arms,  a very  decent  house, 
scarce  a mile  off.” 

“ A new  house,  I suppose  9”  replied  I. 

“ Na,  it’s  a new  public,  bur  it’s  an  auld  house  ; it  was 
aye  the  Leddy’s  jointure-house  in  the  Croftangry-folk’s 
time  ; but  Mr.  Treddles  has  fitted  it  up  for  the  conven- 
ience of  the  country.  Poor  man,  he  was  a public-spirited 
man  when  he  had  the  means.” 

“ Duntarkin  a public  house  !”  I exclaimed. 

“ Ay  9”  said  the  fellow,  surprised  at  my  naming  the 
place  by  its  former  title,  “ ye’ll  hae  been  in  this  country 
before,  I’m  thinking  9” 

“ Long  since,”  1 replied — “ And  there  is  good  accom- 
modation at  the  wbat-ii’ye-call-’em  arms,  and  a civil 
landlord  This  I said  by  way  of  saying  something,  for 
the  man  stared  very  hard  at  me. 

“ Very  decent  accommodation.  Ye’ll  no  be  for  fash- 
ing wi’  wine,  I’m  thinking,  and  there’s  walth  o’  porter, 
ale,  and  a drap  gude  whisky — (in  an  under  tone)  Fairn- 
tosh,  if  you  can  get  on  the  lee-side  of  the  gudewife — for 
there  is  nae  gudeman — They  ca’  her  Christie  Steele.” 

I almost  started  at  the  sound.  Christie  Steele  ! Christie 
Steele  was  my  mother’s  body  servant,  her  very  right  hand, 
and,  between  ourselves,  something  like  a viceroy  over 
her.  I recollected  her  perfectly  ; and  though  she  had, 
in  former  times,  been  no  favourite  of  mine,  her  name  now 
sounded  in  my  ear  like  that  of  a friend,  and  wras  the  first 
word  I had  heard  somewhat  in  unison  with  the  associa- 
tions around  me.  I sallied  from  Castle-Treddles,  deter- 
mined to  make  the  best  of  my  way  to  Duntarkin,  and  my 
cicerone  hung  by  me  for  a little  way,  giving  loose  to  his 
love  of  talking  ; an  opportunity  which,  situated  as  he  was, 


46 


chronicles  of 


the  seneschal  of  a deserted  castle,  was  not  likely  to  occur 
frequently. 

“ Some  folk  think  Mr.  Treddles  might  as  weel  have 
put  my  wife  as  Christie  Steele  into  the  Treddles  Arms, 
for  Christie  had  been  aye  in  service,  and  never  in  the 
public  line,  and  so  it’s  like  she  is  ganging  back  in  the 
world,  as  1 hear — now,  my  wife  had  keepit  a victualling 
office.” 

“ That  would  have  been  an  advantage,  certainly.” 

“ But  I am  no  sure  that  I wad  ha’  looten  Eppie  take  it, 
if  they  had  put  it  in  her  offer.” 

“ That’s  a different  consideration.” 

“ Ony  way,  I wadna  ha’  liked  to  have  offended  Mr. 
Treddles  ; he  was  a wee  toustie  when  you  rubbed  him 
again  the  hair — but  a kind,  weel-meaning  man.” 

I wanted  to  get  rid  of  this  species  of  chat,  and  finding 
myself  near  the  entrance  of  a footpath  which  made  a 
short  cut  to  Duntarkin,  I put  half-a-crown  into  my  guide’s 
hand,  bade  him  good^evening,  and  plunged  into  the  woods. 

“ Hout,  sir — fie,  sir — no  from  the  like  of  you — stay, 
sir,  ye  wunna  find  the  way  that  gate — Odd’s  mercy,  he 
maun  ken  the  gate  as  weel  as  I do  mysell — weel,  I wad 
like  to  ken  wha  the  chield  is.” 

Such  were  the  last  words  of  my  guide’s  drowsy,  unin- 
teresting tone  of  voice  ; and  glad  to  be  rid  of  him,  I 
strode  out  stoutly,  in  despite  of  large  stones,  briers,  and 
bad  steps , which  abounded  in  the  road  I had  chosen.  In 
the  interim,  I tried  as  much  as  I could,  with  verses  from 
Horace  and  Prior,  and  all  who  have  lauded  the  mixture 
of  literary  with  rural  life,  to  call  back  the  visions  of  last 
night  and  this  morning,  imagining  myself  settled  in  some 
detached  farm  of  the  estate  of  Glentanner, 

Which  sloping1  hills  around  inclose — 

Where  many  a birch  and  brown  oak  grows  ; 

when  I should  have  a cottage  with  a small  library,  a small 
cellar,  a spare  bed  for  a friend,  and  live  more  happy  and 
more  honoured  than  when  I had  the  whole  barony.  But 
the  sight  of  Castle-Treddles  had  disturbed  all  my  own 


THE  CANONGATE. 


47 


castles  in  the  air.  The  realities  of  the  matter,  like  a 
stone  plashed  into  a limpid  fountain,  had  destroyed  the 
reflection  of  the  objects  around,  which,  till  this  act  of 
violence,  lay  slumbering  on  the  crystal  surface,  and  I tried 
in  vain  to  re-establish  the  picture  which  had  been  so  rude- 
ly broken.  Well,  then,  1 would  try  it  another  way  ; [ 
would  try  to  get  Christie  Steele  out  of  her  public , since 
she  was  not  thriving  in  it,  and  she  who  had  been  my 
mother’s  governante  should  be  mine.  I knew  all  her 
faults,  and  I told  her  history  over  to  myself. 

She  was  a grand-daughter,  I believe,  at  least  some 
relative,  of  the  famous  Covenanter  of  the  name,  whom 
Dean  Swift’s  friend,  Captain  Crichton,  shot  on  his  own 
staircase  in  the  times  of  the  persecutions,  and  had  per- 
haps derived  from  her  native  stock  much  both  of  its  good 
and  evil  properties.  No  one  could  say  of  her  that  she 
was  the  life  and  spirit  of  the  family,  though,  in  my  moth- 
er’s time,  she  directed  all  family  affairs  ; her  look  was 
austere  and  gloomy,  and  when  she  was  not  displeased 
with  you,  you  could  only  find  it  out  by  her  silence.  If 
there  was  cause  for  complaint,  real  or  imaginary,  Christie 
was  loud  enough.  She  loved  my  mother  with  the  de- 
voted attachment  of  a younger  sister,  but  she  was  as  jeal- 
ous of  her  favour  to  any  one  else  as  if  she  had  been  the 
aged  husband  of  a coquettish  wife,  and  as  severe  in  her 
reprehensions  as  an  abbess  over  her  nuns.  The  com- 
mand which  she  exercised  over  her,  was  that,  I fear,  of 
a strong  and  determined  over  a feeble  and  more  nervous 
disposition  ; and  though  it  was  used  with  rigour,  yet,  to 
the  best  of  Christie  Steele’s  belief,  she  was  urging  her 
mistress  to  her  best  and  most  becoming  course,  and  would 
have  died  rather  than  have  recommended  any  other. 
The  attachment  of  this  woman  was  limited  to  the  family 
of  Croftangry,  for  she  had  few  relations  ; and  a dissolute 
cousin,  whom  late  in  life  she  had  taken  as  a husband,  had 
long  left  her  a widow. 

To  me  she  had  ever  a strong  dislike.  Even  from  my 
early  childhood,  she  was  jealous,  strange  as  it  may  seem, 
of  my  interest  in  my  mother’s  affections  ; she  saw  my 


48 


CHRONICLES  OF 


foibles  and  vices  with  abhorrence,  and  without  a grain  of 
allowance ; nor  did  she  pardon  the  weakness  of  maternal 
affection,  even  when,  by  the  death  of  two  brothers,  I 
came  to  be  the  only  child  of  a widowed  parent.  At  the 
time  my  disorderly  conduct  induced  my  mother  to  leave 
Glentanner,  and  retreat  to  her  jointure-house,  1 always 
blamed  Christie  Steele  for  having  influenced  her  resent- 
ment, and  prevented  her  from  listening  to  my  vows  of 
amendment,  which  at  times  were  real  and  serious,  and 
might,  perhaps,  have  accelerated  that  change  of  disposi- 
tion which  has  since,  I trust,  taken  place.  But  Christie 
regarded  me  as  altogether  a doomed  and  predestinated 
child  of  perdition,  who  was  sure  to  hold  on  my  course, 
and  drag  downwards  whosoever  might  attempt  to  afford 
me  support. 

Still,  though  I knew  such  had  been  Christie’s  preju- 
dices against  me  in  other  days,  yet  I thought  enough  of 
time  had  since  passed  away  to  destroy  all  of  them.  I 
knew,  that  when,  through  the  disorder  of  my  affairs,  my 
mother  underwent  some  temporary  inconvenience  about 
money  matters,  Christie,  as  a thing  of  course,  stood  in 
the  gap,  and  having  sold  a small  inheritance  which  had 
descended  to  her,  brought  the  purchase-money  to  her 
mistress,  with  a sense  of  devotion  as  deep  as  that  which 
inspired  the  Christians  of  the  first  age,  when  they  sold 
all  they  had,  and  followed  the  apostles  of  the  church.  I 
therefore  thought  that  we  might,  in  old  Scottish  phrase, 
“ let  byganes  be  byganes,”  and  begin  upon  a new  ac- 
count. Vet  I resolved,  like  a skilful  general  to  reconnoi- 
tre a little  before  laying  down  any  precise  scheme  of 
proceeding,  and  in  the  interim  I determined  to  preserve 
my  incognito. 


THE  CANONGATE. 


49 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Alas,  how  changed  from  what  it  once  had  been  . 

;Twas  now  degraded  to  a common  inn. 

Gay. 

Half  an  hour’s  brisk  walking,  or  thereabouts,  placed 
me  in  front  of  Duntarkin,  which  had  also,  I found,  under- 
gone considerable  alterations,  though  it  had  not  been  al- 
together demolished  like  the  principal  mansion.  An 
inn-yard  extended  before  the  door  of  the  decent  little 
jointure-house,  even  amidst  the  remnants  of  the  holly 
hedges  which  had  screened  the  lady’s  garden.  Then  a 
broad,  raw-looking,  new-made  road,  intruded  itself  up 
the  little  glen,  instead  of  the  old  horseway,  so  seldom 
used  that  it  was  almost  entirely  covered  with  grass.  It  is 
a great  enormity  of  which  gentlemen  trustees  on  the  high- 
ways are  sometimes  guilty,  in  adopting  the  breadth  neces- 
sary for  an  avenue  to  the  metropolis,  where  all  that  is 
required  is  an  access  to  some  sequestered  and  unpopu- 
lous  district.  I do  not  say  anything  of  the  expense  ; 
that  the  trustees  and  their  constituents  may  settle  as  they 
please.  But  the  destruction  of  sylvan  beauty  is  great, 
when  the  breadth  of  the  road  is  more  than  proportioned 
to  the  vale  through  which  it  runs,  and  lowers  of  course 
the  consequence  of  any  objects  of  wood  or  water,  or 
broken  and  varied  ground,  which  might  otherwise  attract 
notice,  and  give  pleasure.  A bubbling  runnel  by  the  side 
of  one  of  those  modern  Appian  or  Flaminian  highways, 
is  but  like  a kennel, — the  little  hill  is  diminished  to  a hil- 
lock,— the  romantic  hillock  to  a mole-hill,  almost  too 
small  for  sight. 

Such  an  enormity,  however,  had  destroyed  the  quiet 
loneliness  of  Duntarkin,  and  intruded  its  breadth  of  dust 
and  gravel,  and  its  associations  of  po-chays  and  mail- 
5 VOL.  II, 


50 


CHRONICLES  OF 


coaches,  upon  one  of  the  most  sequestered  spots  in  the 
Middle  Ward  of  Clydesdale.  The  house  was  old  and 
dilapidated,  and  looked  sorry  for  itself,  as  if  sensible  of 
a derogation  ; but  the  sign  was  strong  and  new,  and 
brightly  painted,  displaying  a heraldic  shield,  three  shut- 
tles in  a field  diapre,  a web  partly  unfolded  for  crest,  and 
two  stout  giants  for  supporters,  each  one  holding  a weaver’s 
beam  proper.  To  have  displayed  this  monstrous  em- 
blem on  the  front  of  the  house  might  have  hazarded 
bringing  down  the  wall,  but  for  certain  would  have  block- 
ed up  one  or  two  windows.  It  was  therefore  established 
independent  of  the  mansion,  being  displayed  in  an  iron 
frame-work,  and  suspended  upon  two  posts,  with  as  much 
wood  and  iron  about  it  as  would  have  build ed  a brig  ; 
and  there  it  hung,  creaking,  groaning,  and  screaming  in 
every  blast  of  wind,  and  frightening  for  five  miles’  dis- 
tance, for  aught  I know,  the  nests  of  thrushes  and  linnets, 
the  ancient  denizens  of  the  little  glen. 

When  I entered  the  place,  I was  received  by  Christie 
Steele  herself,  who  seemed  uncertain  whether  to  drop  me 
in  the  kitchen,  or  usher  me  into  a separate  apartment. 
As  I called  for  tea,  with  something  rather  more  substan- 
tial than  bread  and  butter,  and  spoke  of  supping  and 
sleeping,  Christie  at  last  inducted  me  into  the  room  where 
she  herself  had  been  sitting,  probably  the  only  one  which 
had  a fire,  though  the  month  was  October.  This  an- 
swered my  plan  ; and,  as  she  was  about  to  remove  her 
spinning-wheel,  I begged  she  would  have  the  goodness  to 
remain  and  make  my  tea,  adding,  that  I liked  the  sound 
of  the  wheel,  and  desired  not  to  disturb  her  housewife- 
thrift  in  the  least. 

“ I dinna  ken,  sir,” — she  replied  in  a dry  reveche  tone, 
which  carried  me  back  twenty  years,  “ I am  nane  of  thae 
heartsome  landleddies  that  can  tell  country  cracks,  and 
make  themselves  agreeable  ; and  I was  ganging  to  pit  on 
a fire  for  you  in  the  Red  room  ; but  if  it  is  your  will  to 
stay  here,  he  that  pays  the  lawing  maun  choose  the  lodg- 
ing.” 


THE  CANONGATE. 


51 


I endeavoured  to  engage  her  in  conversation  ; but 
though  she  answered  with  a kind  oi  stiff'  civility,  I could 
get  her  into  no  freedom  of  discourse,  and  she  began  to 
look  at  her  wheel  and  at  the  door  more  than  once,  as  if 
she  meditated  a retreat.  I was  obliged,  therefore,  to 
proceed  to  some  special  questions  that  might  have  interest 
for  a person,  whose  ideas  were  probably  of  a very  bound- 
ed description. 

I looked  round  the  apartment,  being  the  same  in  which 
I had  last  seen  my  poor  mother.  The  author  of  the 
family  history,  formerly  mentioned,  had  taken  great  credit 
to  himself  for  the  improvements  he  had  made  in  this 
same  jointure-house  of  Duntarkin,  and  how,  upon  his 
marriage,  when  his  mother  took  possession  of  the  same 
as  her  jointure-house,  “ to  his  great  charges  and  expenses 
he  caused  box  the  walls  of  the  great  parlour,  (in  which  I 
was  now  sitting,)  empannel  the  same,  and  plaster  the  roof, 
finishing  the  apartment  with  ane  concave  chimney,  and 
decorating  the  same  with  pictures,  and  a barometer  and 
thermometer.”  And  in  particular,  which  his  good  moth- 
er used  to  say  she  prized  above  all  the  rest,  he  had  caus- 
ed his  own  portraiture  be  limned  over  the  mantel-piece 
by  a skilful  hand.  And,  in  good  faith,  there  he  remained 
still,  having  much  the  visage  which  I was  disposed  to  as- 
cribe to  him  on  the  evidence  of  his  handwriting, — grim 
and  austere,  yet  not  without  a cast  of  shrewdness  and 
determination  ; in  armour,  though  he  never  wore  it,  I 
fancy  ; one  hand  on  an  open  book,  and  one  resting  on  the 
hilt  of  his  sword,  though  I dare  say  his  head  never  ached 
with  reading,  nor  his  limbs  with  fencing. 

“ That  picture  is  painted  on  the  wood,  madam,”  said  I. 
“ Ay,  sir,  or  it’s  like  it  would  not  have  been  left  there  ; 
— they  took  a’  they  could.” 

“ Mr.  Treddles’s  creditors,  you  mean  ?”  said  I. 

“ Na,”  replied  she,  drily,  “ the  creditors  of  another 
family,  that  sweepit  cleaner  than  this  poor  man’s,  because 
I fancy  there  was  less  to  gather.” 

“ An  older  family,  perhaps,  and  probably  more  remem- 
bered and  regretted  than  later  possessors  9” 


52 


CHRONICLES  OF 


Christie  here  settled  herself  in  her  seat,  and  pulled  her 
wheel  towards  her.  I had  given  her  something  interest- 
ing for  her  thoughts  to  dwell  upon,  and  her  wheel  was  a 
mechanical  accompaniment  on  such  occasions,  the  revo- 
lutions of  which  assisted  her  in  the  explanation  of  her 
ideas. 

“ Mair  regretted — mair  missed  ? — I liked  ane  of  the 
auld  family  very  weel,  but  I winna  say  that  for  them  a’. 
How  should  they  be  mair  missed  than  the  Treddles  ? 
The  cotton  mill  was  such  a thing  for  the  country  ! The 
mair  bairns  a cottar  body  had  the  better  ; they  would 
make  their  awn  keep  frae  the  time  they  were  five  years 
auld  ; and  a widow  wi’  three  or  four  bairns  was  a wealthy 
woman  in  the  time  of  the  Treddleses.” 

“ But  the  health  of  these  poor  children,  my  good 
friend — their  education  and  religious  instruction ” 

“ For  health,”  said  Christie,  looking  gloomily  at  me, 
“ ye  maun  ken  little  of  the  warld,  sir,  if  ye  dinna  ken 
that  the  health  of  the  poor  man’s  body,  as  weel  as  his  youth 
and  his  strength,  are  all  at  the  command  of  the  rich  man’s 
purse.  There  never  was  a trade  so  unhealthy  yet,  but 
men  would  fight  to  get  wark  at  it  for  tvva  pennies  a-day 
aboon  the  common  wage.  But  the  bairns  were  reasona- 
bly weel  cared  for  in  the  way  of  air  and  exercise,  and  a 
very  responsible  youth  heard  them  their  carritch,  and  gied 
them  lessons  in  Reediemadeasy.*  Now,  what  did  they 
ever  get  before?  x Maybe  on  a winter  day  they  wad  be 
called  out  to  beat  the  wood  for  cocks  or  siclike,  and  then 
the  starving  weans  would  maybe  get  a bite  of  broken 
bread,  and  maybe  no,  just  as  the  butler  was  in  humour — 
that  was  a’  they  got.” 

“ They  were  not,  then,  a very  kind  family  to  the  poor, 
these  old  possessors?”  said  I,  somewhat  bitterly  ; for  I 
had  expected  to  hear  my  ancestors’  praises  recorded, 
though  I certainly  despaired  of  being  regaled  with  my 
own. 

“ They  werena  ill  to  them,  sir,  and  that  is  aye  some- 


* 11  Reading-  made  Easy,”  usually  so  pronounced  in  Scotland, 


THE  CANONGATE. 


53 


thing.  They  were  just  decent  bien  bodies  ; — ony  pooi 
creature  that  had  face  to  beg  got  an  awraous  and  wel- 
come ; they  that  were  shamefaced  gaed  by,  and  twice  as 
welcome.  But  they  keepit  an  honest  walk  before  God 
and  man,  the  Croftangrys,  and,  as  I said  before,  if  they 
did  little  good,  they  did  as  little  ill.  They  lifted  their 
rents  and  spent  them,  called  in  their  kain  and  eat  them  ; 
gaed  to  the  kirk  of  a Sunday,  bowed  civilly  if  folk  took 
aff  their  bannets  as  they  gaed  by,  and  lookit  as  black  as 
sin  at  them  that  keepit  them  on.” 

“ These  are  their  arms  that  you  have  on  the  sign  ?” 

“ What  ! on  the  painted  board  that  is  skirling  and 
groaning  at  the  door  ? — Na,  these  are  Mr.  Treddles’s 
arms — though  they  look  as  like  legs  as  arms — ill  pleased 
I was  at  the  fule  thing,  that  cost  as  muckle  as  would  hae 
repaired  the  house  from  the  wa’  stane  to  the  rigging-tree. 
But  if  I am  to  bide  here,  I’ll  hae  the  decent  board  wi’ 
the  punch  bowl  back  again.” 

“ Is  there  a doubt  of  your  staying  here,  Mrs.  Steele  !” 
“ Dinna  Mistress  me,”  said  the  cross  old  woman, 
whose  fingers  were  now  plying  their  thrift  in  a manner 
which  indicated  nervous  irrilat’on — “ there  was  nae  luck 
in  the  laud  since  Luckie  turned  Mistress,  and  Mistress  my 
Leddy  ; and  as  for  staying  here,  if  it  concerns  you  to 
ken,  I may  stay  if  I can  pay  a hundred  pund  sterling  for 
the  lease,  and  I may  flit  if  1 canna  ; and  so  gude  e’en  to 
you,  Christie,” — and  round  went  the  wheel  with  much 
activity. 

“ And  you  like  the  trade  of  keeping  a public  house  ?” 
“ I can  scarce  say  that,”  she  replied.  “ But  worthy 
Mr.  Prendergast  is  clear  of  its  lawfulness,  and  I hae  got- 
ten used  to  it,  and  made  a decent  living,  though  I never 
make  out  a fause  reckoning,  or  give  ony  ane  the  means  to 
disorder  reason  in  my  house.” 

“ Indeed,”  said  I,  “ in  that  case,  there  is  no  wonder 
you  have  not  made  up  the  hundred  pounds  to  purchase 
the  lease.” 

“ How  do  you  ken,”  said  she  sharply,  “ that  I might 

5*  VOL,  i. 


54 


CHRONICLES  OF 


not  have  had  a hundred  punds  of  my  ain  fee  9 If  I 
have  it  not,  I am  sure  it  is  my  ain  faut ; and  I vvunna  ca’ 
it  faut  neither,  for  it  gaed  to  her  wha  was  weel  entitled  to 
a’  my  service.”  Again  she  pulled  stoutly  at  the  flax, 
and  the  wheel  went  smartly  round. 

“ This  old  gentleman,”  said  J,  fixing  my  eye  on  the 
painted  pannel,  “ seems  to  have  had  his  arms  painted  as 
well  as  Mr.  Treddles — that  is,  if  that  painting  in  the  cor- 
ner be  a scutcheon.” 

“ Ay,  ay — cushion,  just  sae,  they  maun  a5  hae  their 
cushions  ; there’s  sma’  gentry  without  that ; and  so  the 
arms,  as  they  ca’  them,  of  the  house  of  Glentanner,  may 
be  seen  on  an  auld  stane  in  the  west  end  of  the  house. 
But  to  do  them  justice,  they  didna  propale  sae  muckle 
about  them  as  poor  Mr.  Treddles  did  ; — it’s  like  they 
were  better  used  to  them.” 

“ Very  likely. — Are  there  any  of  the  old  family  in 
life,  goodwife  9” 

“ No,”  she  replied  ; then  added,  after  a moment’s 
hesitation — “ not  that  I know  of,” — and  the  wheel,  which 
had  intermitted,  began  again  to  revolve. 

“ Gone  abroad,  perhaps  9”  I suggested. 

She  now  looked  up  and  faced  me — “ No,  sir.  There 
were  three  sons  of  the  last  laird  of  Glentanner,  as  he  was 
then  called  ; John  and  William  were  hopeful  young  gen- 
tlemen, but  they  died  early — one  of  a decline,  brought 
on  by  the  mizzles,  the  other  lost  his  life  in  a fever.  It 
would  hae  been  lucky  for  mony  ane  that  Chrystal  had 
gane  the  same  gate.” 

u Oh — he  must  have  been  the  young  spendthrift  that 
sold  the  property  9 Well,  but  you  should  not  have  such 
an  ill-will  against  him  : remember  necessity  has  no  law  ; 
and  then,  goodwife,  he  was  not  more  culpable  than  Mr. 
Treddles,  whom  you  are  so  sorry  for.” 

“ I wish  I could  think  sae,  sir,  for  his  mother’s  sake  ; 
but  Mr.  Treddles  was  in  trade,  and  though  he  had  no 
preceese  right  to  do  so,  yet  there  was  some  warrant  for  a 
man  being  expensive  that  imagined  he  was  making  a mint 
of  money.  But  this  unhappy  lad  devoured  his  patrimo- 


THE  CANONGATK. 


55 


ny,  when  he  kenned  that  he  was  living  like  a ratten  in  a 
Dunlap  cheese,  and  diminishing  his  means  at  a’  hands — 
I canna  bide  to  think  on’t.”  With  this  she  broke  out  into 
a snatch  of  a ballad  ; but  little  of  mirth  was  there  either 
in  the  tone  or  the  expression — 

“ For  he  did  spend,  and  make  an  end 
Of  gear  that  his  forefathers  wan  : 

Of  land  and  ware  he  made  him  bare, 

So  speak  nae  mair  of  the  auld  gudeman.” 

“ Come,  dame,”  said  I,  “ it  is  a long  lane  that  has  no 
turning.  I will  not  keep  from  you  that  I have  heard 
something  of  this  poor  fellow,  Cbrystal  Croftangry.  He 
has  sown  his  wild  oats,  as  they  say,  and  has  settled  into  a 
steady  respectable  man.” 

“ And  wha  tell’d  ye  that  tidings'?”  said  she,  looking 
sharply  at  me. 

“ Not  perhaps  the  best  judge  in  the  world  of  his  char- 
acter, for  it  was  himself,  dame.” 

“ And  if  he  tell’d  you  truth,  it  was  a virtue  he  did  not 
aye  usje  to  practise,”  said  Christie. 

“ The  devil !”  said  I,  considerably  nettled  ; “ all  the 
world  held  him  to  be  a man  of  honour.” 

“ Ay,  ay  ! he  would  hae  shot  ony  body  wi’  his  pistofe 
and  his  guns,  that  had  evened  him  to  be  a liar.  But  if 
he  promised  to  pay  an  honest  tradesman  the  next  term- 
day,  did  he  keep  his  word  then  And  if  he  promised 
a poor  silly  lass  to  make  gude  her  shame,  did  he  speak 
truth  then  ? And  what  is  that,  but  being  a liar,  and  a 
black-hearted  deceitful  liar  to  boot  ?” 

My  indignation  was  rising,  but  I strove  to  suppress  it ; 
indeed,  1 should  only  have  afforded  my  tormentor  a tri- 
umph by  an  angry  reply.  I partly  suspected  she  began 
to  recognize  me  ; yet  she  testified  so  little  emotion,  that  I 
could  not  think  my  suspicion  well  founded.  I went  on, 
therefore,  to  say,  in  a tone  as  indifferent  as  I could  com- 
mand, “ Well,  goodwife,  I see  you  will  believe  no  good 
of  this  Cbrystal  of  yours,  till  he  comes  back  and  buys  a 
good  farm  an  the  estate,  and  makes  you  his  housekeeper.” 


56 


CHRONICLES  OF 


The  old  woman  dropped  her  thread,  folded  her  hands, 
as  she  looked  up  to  heaven  with  a face  of  apprehension. 
“ The  Lord,”  she  exclaimed,  “ forbid  ! the  Lord  in  his 
mercy  forbid  ! Oh,  sir  ! if  you  really  know  this  unlucky 
man,  persuade  him  to  settle  where  folk  ken  the  good  that 
you  say  he  has  come  to,  and  dinna  ken  the  evil  of  his 
former  days.  He  used  to  be  proud  enough — O dinna 
let  him  come  here,  even  for  bis  own  sake. — He  used 
ance  to  have  some  pride.” 

Here  she  once  more  drew  the  wheel  close  to  her,  and 
began  to  pull  at  the  flax  with  both  hands — “ Dinna  let  him 
come  here,  to  be  looked  down  upon  by  ony  that  may  be 
left  of  his  auld  reiving  companions,  and  to  see  the  decent 
folk  that  he  looked  over  his  nose  at  look  over  their  noses 
at  him,  baith  at  kirk  and  market.  Dinna  let  him  come 
to  his  ain  country  to  be  made  a tale  about  when  ony 
neighbour  points  him  out  to  another,  and  tells  what  he  is, 
and  what  he  was,  and  how  he  wrecked  a dainty  estate, 
and  brought  harlots  to  the  door-cheek  of  his  father’s 
house,  till  he  made  it  nae  residence  for  his  mother  ; and 
how  it  had  been  foretauld  by  a servant  of  his  ain  house, 
that  he  was  a ne’er-do-weel,  and  a child  of  perdition,  and 
how  her  words  were  made  good,  and ” 

“ Stop  there,  goodwife,  if  you  please,”  said  I : “ you 
have  said  as  much  as  I can  well  remember,  and  more  than 
it  may  be  safe  to  repeat.  ] can  use  a great  deal  of  free- 
dom with  the  gentleman  we  speak  of  ; but  1 think  were 
any  other  person  to  carry  him  half  of  your  message,  I 
would  scarce  insure  his  personal  safety.  And  now,  as  I 
see  the  night  is  settled  to  be  a fine  one,  I will  walk  on 

to , where  I must  meet  a coach  to-morrow,  as  it 

passes  to  Edinburgh.” 

So  saying,  I paid  my  moderate  reckoning,  and  took 
my  leave,  without  being  able  to  discover  whether  the  pre- 
judiced and  hard-hearted  old  woman  did,  or  did  not,  sus- 
pect the  identity  of  her  guest,  with  the  Chrystal  Croftan-* 
gry  against  whom  she  harboured  so  much  dislike. 

The  night  was  fine  and  frosty,  though,  when  1 pretend- 
ed to  see  what  its  character  was,  it  might  have  rained  like 


TIIE  CANONGATK. 


57 


the  deluge.  I only  made  the  excuse  to  escape  from  old 
Christie  Steele.  The  horses  which  run  races  in  the 
Corso  at  Rome  without  any  riders,  in  order  to  stimulate 
their  exertion,  carry  each  his  own  spurs,  namely,  small 
balls  of  steel,  with  sharp  projecting  spikes,  which  are  at- 
tached to  loose  straps  of  leather,  and,  flying  about  in  the 
violence  of  the  agitation,  keep  the  horse  to  bis  speed  by 
pricking  him  as  they  strike  against  bis  flanks.  The  old 
woman’s  reproaches  had  the  same  effect  on  me,  and  urg- 
ed me  to  a rapid  pace,  as  if  it  bad  been  possible  to  escape 
from  my  own  recollections.  In  the  best  days  of  my  life, 
when  I won  one  or  two  bard  walking  matches,  I doubt  if 
I ever  walked  so  fast  as  I did  betwixt  the  Treddles  Arms 
and  the  borough  town  for  which  1 was  bound.  Though 
the  night  was  cold,  I was  warm  enough  by  the  time  I got 
to  my  inn  ; and  it  required  a refreshing  draught  of  porter, 
with  half  an  hour’s  repose,  ere  I could  determine  to  give 
no  farther  thought  to  Christie  and  her  opinions,  than  those 
of  any  other  vulgar  prejudiced  old  woman.  I resolved 
at  last  to  treat  the  thing  en  bagatelle , and,  calling  for 
writing  materials,  I folded  up  a cheque  for  £.100,  with 
these  lines  on  the  envelope  : 

Chrystal,  the  ne’er-do-weel, 

Child  destined  to  the  Deil, 

Sends  this  to  Christie  Steele. 

And  I was  so  much  pleased  with  this  new  mode  of  view- 
ing the  subject,  that  I regretted  the  lateness  of  the  hour 
prevented  my  finding  a person  to  carry  the  letter  express 
to  its  destination. 

But  with  the  morning  cool  reflection  came. 

I considered  that  the  money,  and  probably  more,  was 
actually  due  by  me  on  my  mother’s  account  to  Christie, 
who  had  lent  it  in  a moment  of  great  necessity,  and  that 
the  returning  it  in  a light  or  ludicrous  manner  was  not 
unlikely  to  prevent  so  touchy  and  punctilious  a person 
from  accepting  a debt  which  was  most  justly  her  due, 
and  which  it  became  me  particularly  to  see  satisfied. 


58 


CHRONICLES  OF 


Sacrificing  then  my  triad  with  little  regret,  (for  it  looked 
better  by  candle-light  and  through  the  medium  of  a pot 
of  porter,  than  it  did  by  daylight,  and  with  bohea  for  a 
menstruum,)  1 determined  to  employ  Mr.  Fairscribe’s 
mediation  in  buying  up  the  lease  of  the  little  inn,  and 
conferring  it  upon  Christie  in  the  way  which  should  make 
it  most  acceptable  to  her  feelings.  It  is  only  necessary 
to  add,  that  my  plan  succeeded,  and  that  Widow  Steele 
even  yet  keeps  the  Treddles  Arms.  Do  not  say,  there- 
fore, that  I have  been  disingenuous  with  you,  reader; 
since,  i(  I have  not  told  all  the  ill  of  myself  I might  have 
done,  1 have  indicated  to  you  a person  able  and  willing 
to  supply  the  blank,  by  relating  all  my  delinquencies,  as 
well  as  my  misfortunes. 

In  the  meantime,  1 totally  abandoned  the  idea  of  re- 
deeming any  part  of  my  paternal  property,  and  resolved 
to  take  Christie  Steele’s  advice,  as  young  Norval  does 
Glenalvon’s,  • although  it  sounded  harshly.” 


CHAPTER  V. 

— If  you  will  know  my  house, 

,rTis  at  the  tuft  of  olives  here  hard-by. 

As  You  Like  It. 

Ey  a revolution  of  humour  which  I am  unable  to  ac- 
count for,  I changed  my  mind  entirely  on  my  plans  of 
life,  in  consequence  of  the  disappointment,  the  history  of 
which  fills  the  last  chapter.  1 began  to  discover  that  the 
country  would  not  at  all  suit  me  ; for  I had  relinquished 
field-sports,  and  felt  no  inclination  whatever  to  farming, 
the  ordinary  vocation  of  country  gentlemen  ; besides  that 
1 had  no  talent  for  assisting  either  candidate  in  case  of  an 
expected  election,  and  saw  no  amusement  in  the  duties 
of  a road  trustee,  a commissioner  of  supply,  or  even  in 


THE  CANONGATE. 


59 


the  magisterial  functions  of  the  bench.  I had  begun  to 
take  some  taste  for  reading  ; and  a domiciliation  in  the 
country  must  remove  me  from  the  use  of  books,  except- 
ing the  small  subscription  library,  in  which  the  very  book 
which  you  want  is  uniformly  sure  to  be  engaged. 

I resolved,  therefore,  to  make  the  Scottish  metropolis 
my  regular  resting-place,  reserving  to  myself  to  take  oc- 
casionally those  excursions,  which,  spite  of  all  I have  said 
against  mail-coaches,  Mr.  Piper  has  rendered  so  easy. 
Friend  of  our  life  and  of  our  leisure,  he  secures  by  de- 
spatch against  loss  of  time,  and  by  the  best  of  coaches, 
cattle,  and  steadiest  of  drivers,  against  hazard  of  limb,  and 
wafts  us,  as  well  as  our  letters,  from  Edinburgh  to  Cape 
Wrath  in  the  penning  of  a paragraph. 

When  my  mind  was  quite  made  up  to  make  Auld 
Reekie  my  head-quarters,  reserving  the  privilege  of  ex- 
ploring in  all  directions,  I began  to  explore  in  good  ear- 
nest for  the  purpose  of  discovering  a suitable  habitation. 
“ And  whare  trew  ye  I gaed  V9  as  Sir  Pertinax  says. 
Not  to  George’s  square — nor  to  Charlotte  Square — nor 
to  the  old  New  Town — nor  to  the  New  Town — nor  to 
the  Calton  Hill  ; I went  to  the  Canongate,  and  to  the 
very  portion  of  the  Canongate  in  which  1 had  formerly 
been  immured,  like  the  errant  knight,  prisoner  in  some 
enchanted  castle,  where  spells  have  made  the  ambient 
air  impervious  to  the  unhappy  captive,  although  the  or- 
gans of  sight  encountered  no  obstacle  to  his  free  passage. 

Why  I should  have  thought  of  pitching  my  tent  here 
I cannot  tell.  Perhaps  it  was  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of 
freedom,  where  ] had  so  long  endured  the  bitterness  of 
restraint ; on  the  principle  of  the  officer,  who,  after  he 
had  retired  from  the  army,  ordered  his  servant  to  continue 
to  call  him  at  the  hour  of  parade,  simply  that  he  might 
have  the  pleasure  of  saying — “D — n the  parade,”  and 
turning  to  the  other  side  to  enjoy  his  slumbers.  Or  per- 
haps 1 expected  to  find  in  the  vicinity  some  little  old-fash- 
ioned house,  having  somewhat  of  the  rus  in  urbe , which 
I was  ambitious  of  enjoying.  Enough,  1 went,  as  afore- 
said, to  the  Canongate. 


60 


CHRONICLES  OF 


I stood'by  the  kennel,  of  which  I have  formerly  spoken, 
and,  my  mind  being  at  ease,  my  bodily  organs  were  more 
delicate.  I was  more  sensible  than  heretofore,  that,  like 
the  trade  of  Pompey  in  Measure  for  Measure — it  did  in 

some  sort pah — an  ounce  of  civet,  good  apothecary. 

— Turning  from  thence,  my  steps  naturally  directed  them- 
selves to  my  own  humble  apartment,  where  my  little  High- 
land landlady,  as  dapper  and  as  tight  as  ever,  (for  old 
women  wear  a hundred  times  better  than  the  hard-wrought 
seniors  of  the  masculine  sex,)  stood  at  the  door,  teedling 
to  herself  a Highland  song  as  she  shook  a table  napkin 
over  the  fore-stair,  and  then  proceeded  to  fold  it  up  neatly 
for  future  service. 

44  How  do  you,  Janet  9” 

44  Thank  ye,  good  sir,”  answered  my  old  friend,  with- 
out looking  at  me  ; 64  but  ye  might  as  weel  say  Mrs.  Mac- 
Evoy,  for  she  is  na  a’body’s  Shanet — umph.” 

44  You  must  be  my  Janet,  though,  for  all  that — have 
you  forgot  me  9 — Do  you  not  remember  Chrystal  Croft- 
angry  9” 

The  light,  kind-hearted  creature  threw  her  napkin  into 
the  open  door,  skipped  down  the  stair  like  a fairy,  three 
steps  at  once,  seized  me  by  the  hands, — both  hands, — 
jumped  up,  and  actually  kissed  me.  I was  a little  asham- 
ed ; but  what  swain,  of  somewhere  inclining  to  sixty, 
could  resist  the  advances  of  a fair  contemporary  9*  So 
we  allowed  the  full  degree  of  kindness  to  the  meeting, — 
honi  soit  qui  mol  y pensc, — and  then  Janet  entered  instant- 
ly upon  business.  44  An’ ye’ll  gae  in,  man,  and  see  your 
auld  lodgings,  nae  doubt,  and  Shanet  will  pay  ye  the  fif- 
teen shillings  of  change  that  ye  ran  away  without,  and 
without  bidding  Shanet  good  day.  But  never  mind,” 
(nodding  good-humouredly,)  44  Shanet  saw  you  were  car- 
ried for  the  time.” 

By  this  time  we  were  in  my  old  quarters,  and  Janet, 
with  her  bottle  of  cordial  in  one  hand  and  the  glass  in  the 
other,  had  forced  on  me  a dram  of  usquebaugh,  distilled 
with  saffron  and  other  herbs,  after  some  old-fashioned 
Highland  receipt.  Then  was  unfolded,  out  of  many  a 


THE  CANONGATE. 


61 


little  scrap  of  paper,  the  reserved  sum  of  fifteen  shillings, 
which  Janet  had  treasured  for  twenty  years  and  upwards. 

“ Here  they  are,”  she  said,  in  honest  triumph,  “ just 
the  same  I was  holding  out  to  ye  when  ye  ran  as  if  ye  had 
been  fey.  Shanet  has  had  siller,  and  Shanet  has  wanted 
siller,  mony  a time  since  that — and  the  gauger  has  come, 
and  the  factor  has  come,  and  the  butcher  and  baker — 
Cot  bless  us — just  like  to  tear  poor  auld  Shanet  to  pieces  ; 
but  she  took  good  care  of  Mr.  Croftangry’s  fifteen  shil- 
lings.” 

“ But  what  if  I had  never  come  back,  Janet  9” 

“ Och,  if  Shanet  had  heard  you  were  dead,  she  would 
hae  gien  it  to  the  poor  of  the  chapel,  to  pray  for  Mr. 
Croftangry,”  said  Janet,  crossing  herself,  for  she  was  a 
Catholic  ; — “ you  maybe  do  not  think  it  would  do  you 
cood,  but  the  blessing  of  the  poor  can  never  do  no  harm.” 
I agreed  heartily  in  Janet’s  conclusion  ; and,  as  to  have 
desired  her  to  consider  the  hoard  as  her  own  property, 
would  have  been  an  indelicate  return  to  her  for  the  up- 
rightness of  her  conduct,  I requested  her  to  dispose  of  it 
as  she  had  proposed  to  do  in  the  event  of  my  death,  that 
is,  if  she  knew  any  poor  people  of  merit  to  whom  it  might 
be  useful. 

“ Ower  mony  of  them,”  raising  the  corner  of  her  check- 
ed apron  to  her  eyes,  “ e’en  ower  mony  of  them,  Mr. 
Croftangry. — Och,  ay — there  is  the  puir  Highland  crea- 
tures frae  Glenshee,  that  cam  down  for  the  harvest,  and 
are  lying  wi’  the  fever — five  shillings  to  them,  and  half-a- 
crown  to  Bessie  MacEvoy,  whose  coodman,  puir  creature, 
died  of  the  frost,  being  a shairman,  for  a’  the  whisky  he 

could  drink  to  keep  it  out  o’  his  stamoch — and ” 

But  she  suddenly  interrupted  the  bead-roll  of  her  pro- 
posed charities,  and  assuming  a very  sage  look,  and  prim- 
ming up  her  little  chattering  mouth,  she  went  on  in  a 
different  tone — “ But,  och,  Mr.  Croftangry,  bethink  ye 
whether  ye  will  not  need  a’  this  siller  yoursell,  and  maybe 
look  back  and  think  lang  for  ha’en  kiven  it  away,  whilk  is 
a creat  sin  to  forthink  a wark  o’  charity,  and  also  is  un- 

6 VOL.  1. 


62 


CHRONICLES  OF 


lucky,  and  moreover  is  not  the  thought  of  a shentleman’s 
son  like  yoursell,  dear.  And  I say  this,  that  ye  may  think 
a bit,  for  your  mother’s  son  kens  that  ye  are  no  so  care- 
ful as  you  should  be  of  the  gear,  and  I hae  tauld  ye  of  it 
before,  jewel.” 

1 assured  her  I could  easily  spare  the  money,  without 
risk  of  future  repentance  ; and  she  went  on  to  infer, 
that,  in  such  a case,  46  Mr.  Croftangry  had  grown  a rich 
man  in  foreign  parts,  and  was  free  of  his  troubles  with 
messengers  and  sheriff-officers,  and  siclike  scum  of  the 
earth,  and  Shanet  MacEvoy’s  mother’s  daughter  be  a 
blithe  woman  to  hear  it.  Put  if  Mr.  Croftangry  was  in 
trouble,  there  was  his  room,  and  his  ped,  and  Shanet  to 
wait  on  him,  and  tak  payment  when  it  was  quite  con- 
venient.” 

1 explained  to  Janet  my  situation,  in  which  she  express- 
ed unqualified  delight.  1 then  proceeded  to  inquire  into 
her  own  circumstances,  and,  though  she  spoke  cheerfully 
and  contentedly,  I could  see  they  were  precarious.  I had 
paid  more  than  was  due  ; other  lodgers  fell  into  an  oppo- 
site error,  and  forgot  to  pay  Janet  at  all.  Then,  Janet 
being  ignorant  of  all  indirect  modes  of  screwing  money 
out  of  her  lodgers,  others  in  the  same  line  of  life,  who 
were  sharper  than  the  poor  simple  Highland  woman,  were 
enabled  to  let  their  apartments  cheaper  in  appearance, 
though  the  inmates  usually  found  them  twice  as  dear  in 
the  long-run. 

As  I had  already  destined  my  old  landlady  to  be  my 
housekeeper  and  governante,  knowing  her  honesty,  good- 
nature, and,  although  a Scotchwoman,  her  cleanliness  and 
excellent  temper,  (saving  the  short  and  hasty  expressions 
of  anger  which  Highlanders  call  a fuff,)  I now  proposed 
the  plan  to  her  in  such  a way  as  was  likely  to  make  it 
most  acceptable.  Very  acceptable  as  the  proposal  was, 
as  1 could  plainly  see,  Janet,  however,  took  a day  to  con- 
sider upon  it;  and  her  reflections  against  our  next  meet- 
ing had  suggested  only  one  objection,  which  was  singular 
enough. 


TIili  CANONGATE. 


“ My  honour,”  so  she  now  termed  me,  “ would 
biding  in  some  fine  street  a pout  the  town  ; now  Shanet 
wad  ill  like  to  live  in  a place  where  polish,  and  sheriffs, 
and  bailiffs,  and  sic  thieves  and  trash  of  the  world,  could 
tak  puir  shentlemen  by  the  throat,  just  because  they  want- 
ed a vvheen  dollars  in  the  sporran.  She  had  lived  in  the 
bonny  glen  of  Tomanthoulick — Cot,  an  ony  ol  the  ver- 
mint  had  come  there,  her  father  would  hae  wared  a shot 
on  them,  and  he  could  hit  a buck  within  as  mony  meas- 
ured yards  as  e’er  a man  of  his  clan.  And  the  place 
here  was  so  quiet  frae  them,  they  durst  na  put  their  nose 
ower  the  gutter.  Shanet  ofred  nobody  a bodle,  put  she 
couldna  bide  to  see  honest  folk  and  pretty  shentlemen 
forced  away  to  prison  whether  they  would  or  no  ; and 
then  if  Shanet  was  to  lay  her  tangs  ower  ane  of  the  rag- 
amuffins’ heads,  it  would  be,  maybe,  that  the  law  would 
gi’ed  a hard  name.” 

One  thing  I have  learned  in  life, — never  to  speak  sense 
when  nonsense  will  answer  the  purposeras  well.  I should 
have  had  great  difficulty  to  convince  this  practical  and  dis- 
interested admirer  and  vindicator  of  liberty,  that  arrests 
seldom  or  never  were  to  be  seen  in  the  streets  of  Edin- 
burgh, and  to  satisfy  her  of  their  justice  and  necessity, 
would  have  been  as  difficult  as  to  convert  her  to  the  Pro- 
testant faith.  1 therefore  assured  her  my  intention,  if  I 
could  get  a suitable  habitation,  was  to  remain  in  the  quarter 
where  she  at  present  dwelt.  Janet  gave  three  skips  on 
the  floor,  and  uttered  as  many  short  shrill  yells  of  joy  ; 
yet  doubt  almost  instantly  returned,  and  she  insisted  on 
knowing  what  possible  reason  I could  have  for  making  my 
residence  where  few  lived,  save  those  whose  misfortunes 
drove  them  thither.  It  occurred  to  me  to  answer  her  by 
recounting  the  legend  of  the  rise  of  my  family,  and  of 
our  deriving  our  name  from  a particular  place  near  Holy- 
rood  Palace.  This,  which  would  have  appeared  to  most 
people  a very  absurd  reason  for  choosing  a residence,  was 
entirely  satisfactory  to  Janet  MacEvoy. 

“ Och,  nae  doubt  ! if  it  was  the  land  of  her  fathers, 
there  was  nae  mair  to  be  said.  Put  it  was  queer  that  her 


CHKONICLES  OF 


estate  should  just  lie  at  the  town  tail,  and  covered 
with  houses  where  the  King’s  cows,  Cot  bless  them  hide 
and  horn,  used  to  craze  upon.  Jt  was  strange  changes.” 
— She  mused  a little,  and  then  added,  “ Put  it  is  some- 
thing better  wi’  Croftangry  when  the  changes  is  frae  the 
field  to  the  habited  place,  and  not  from  the  place  of  hab- 
itation to  the  desert;  for  Sbanet,  her  nainsell,  kent  a glen 
where  there  wrere  men  as  weel  as  there  maybe  in  Croft- 
angry, and  if  there  werena  altogether  sae  mony  of  them, 
they  were  as  good  men  in  their  tartan  as  the  others  in 
their  broadcloth.  And  there  were  houses  too,  and  if  they 
wrere  not  biggit  with  stane  and  lime,  and  lofted  like  the 
houses  at  Croftangry,  yet  they  served  the  purpose  of  them 
that  lived  there  ; and  mony  a braw  bonnet,  and  mony  a 
silk  snood,  and  comely  white  curch,  would  come  out  to 
gang  to  kirk  or  chapel  on  the  Lord’s  day,  and  little  bairns 
toddling  after  ; and  now, — Och,  Och,  Ohellany,  Ohonari ! 
the  glen  is  desolate,  and  the  braw  snoods  and  bonnets  are 
gane,  and  the  Saxon’s  house  stands  dull  and  lonely,  like 
the  single  bare-breasted  rock  that  the  falcon  builds  on — - 
the  falcon  that  drives  the  heath-bird  frae  the  glen.” 

Janet,  like  many  Highlanders,  was  full  of  imagination  ; 
and,  when  melancholy  themes  came  upon  her,  expressed 
herself  almost  poetically,  owing  to  the  genius  of  the  Celtic 
language  in  which  she  thought,  and  in  which,  doubtless, 
she  would  have  spoken,  had  1 understood  Gaelic.  In  two 
minutes  the  shade  of  gloom  and  regret  had  passed  from 
her  good-humoured  features,  and  she  was  again  the  little 
busy,  prating,  important  old  woman,  undisputed  owner  of 
one  fiat  of  a small  tenement  in  the  Abbey-yard,  and  about 
to  be  promoted  to  be  housekeeper  to  an  elderly  bachelor 
gentleman,  Chrystal  Croftangry,  Esq. 

It  was  not  long  before  Janet’s  local  researches  found 
out  exactly  the  sort  of  place  I wanted,  and  there  we  set- 
tled. Janet  was  afraid  I would  not  be  satisfied,  because 
it  is  not  exactly  part  of  Croftangry  ; but  I stopped  her 
doubts,  by  assuring  her  it  had  been  part  and  pendicle 
thereof  in  my  forefathers’  time,  which  passed  very  vvelk 


THE  CANONGATE. 


65 


I do  not  intend  to  possess  any  one  with  an  exact  know- 
ledge of  my  lodging  ; though,  as  Bobadil  says,  “ I care 
not  who  knows  it,  since  the  cabin  is  convenient.”  But  I 
may  state  in  general,  that  it  is  a house  “ within  itself,”  or 
according  to  a newer  phraseology  in  advertisements,  self- 
contained , has  a garden  of  near  half  an  acre,  and  a patch 
of  ground  with  trees  in  front.  It  boasts  five  rooms  and 
servants’  apartments — looks  in  front  upon  the  palace,  and 
from  behind  towards  the  hill  and  crags  of  the  King’s  Park. 
Fortunately  the  place  had  a name,  which,  with  a little  im- 
provement, served  to  countenance  the  legend  which  I had 
imposed  on  Janet,  and  would  not  perhaps  have  been  sorry 
if  L had  been  able  to  impose  on  myself.  It  was  called 
Littlecroft ; we  have  dubbed  it  Little  Croftangry,  and  the 
men  of  letters  belonging  to  the  Post  Office  have  sanction- 
ed the  change,  and  deliver  letters  so  addressed. 

My  establishment  consists  of  Janet,  an  under  maid- 
servant, and  a Highland  wench  for  Janet  to  exercise  her 
Gaelic  upon,  with  a handy  lad  who  can  lay  the  cloth,  and 
take  care  besides  of  a pony,  on  which  I find  my  way.  to 
Portobello  sands,  especially  when  the  cavalry  have  a 
drill  ; for,  like  an  old  fool  as  I am,  I have  not  altogether 
become  indifferent  to  the  tramp  of  horses  and  the  flash 
of  weapons,  of  which,  though  no  professional  soldier,  it 
has  been  my  fate  to  see  something  in  my  youth.  For 
wet  mornings,  I have  my  book — is  it  fine  weather,  I visit 
or  I wander  on  the  Crags  as  the  humour  dictates.  My 
dinner  is  indeed  solitary,  yet  not  quite  so  neither  ; for 
though  Andrew  waits,  Janet,  or, — as  she  is  to  all  the 
world  but  her  master,  and  certain  old  Highland  gossips, — * 
Mrs.  MacEvoy,  attends,  bustles  about,  and  desires  to  see 
everything  is  in  first-rate  order,  and  to  tell  me,  Cot  pless 
us,  the  wonderful  news  of  the  Palace  for  the  day.  When 
the  cloth  is  removed,  and  I light  rny  cigar,  and  begin  to 
husband  a pint  of  port,  or  a glass  of  old  whisky  and  water, 
it  is  the  rule  of  the  house  that  Janet  takes  a chair  at  some 
distance,  and  nods  or  works  her  stocking,  as  she  may  be 
disposed  ; ready  to  speak,  if  1 am  in  the  talking  humour, 

6*  VOL.  i. 


66 


CHItONICLKS  OF 


and  sitting  quiet  as  a mouse  if  I am  rather  inclined  to 
study  a book  or  die  newspaper.  At  six  precisely  she  makes 
my  tea,  and  leaves  me  to  drink  it  ; and  then  occurs  an 
interval  of  time  which  most  old  bachelors  find  heavy  on 
their  hands.  The  theatre  is  a good  occasional  resource, 
but  it  is  distant,  and  so  are  one  or  two  public  societies  to 
which  I belong  ; besides,  these  evening  walks  are  all  in- 
compatible with  the  elbow-chair  feeling,  which  desires 
some  employment  that  may  divert  the  mind  without  fa- 
tiguing the  body. 

Under  the  influence  of  these  impressions,  I have  some- 
times thought  of  this  literary  undertaking.  I must  have 
been  the  Bonassus  himself  to  have  mistaken  myself  for  a 
genius,  yet  I have  leisure  and  reflectibns  like  my  neigh- 
bours. I am  a borderer  also  between  two  generations, 
and  can  point  out  more  perhaps  than  others  of  those 
fading  traces  of  antiquity  which  are  daily  vanishing  ; and 
I know  many  a modern  instance  and  many  an  old  tradi- 
tion, and  therefore  I ask — • 

What  ails  me,  I may  not,  as  well  as  they, 

Rake  up  some  thread-hare  tales,  that  mouldering1  lay 
In  ehimney  corners,  wont  by  Christinas  fires 
To  read  and  rock  to  sleep  our  ancient  sires  ? 

No  man  his  threshold  better  knows,  than  I 
Brute’s  first  arrival  and  first  victory, 

Saint  George’s  sorrel  and  his  cross  of  blood, 

Arthur’s  round  board  and  Caledonian  wood. 

No  shop  is  so  easily  set  up  as  an  antiquary’s.  Like 
those  of  the  lowest  order  of  pawnbrokers,  a commodity 
of  rusty  iron,  a bag  or  two  of  hob-nails,  a few  odd  shoe- 
buckles,  cashiered  kail-pots,  and  fire-irons  declared  inca- 
pable of  service,  are  quite  sufficient  to  set  him  up.  If  he 
add  a sheaf  or  two  of  penny  ballads  and  broadsides,  he 
is  a great  man— -an  extensive  trader.  And  then — like 
the  pawnbrokers  aforesaid,  if  the  author  understands  a 
little  legerdemain,  he  may,  by  dint  of  a little  picking  and 
stealing,  make  the  inside  of  his  shop  a great  deal  richer 
than  the  out,  and  be  able  to  ^hovv  you  things  which  cause 


THE  CANONGATE. 


67 


those  who  do  not  understand  the  antiquarian  trick  of  clean 
conveyance,  to  wonder  how  the  devil  he  came  by  them. 

It  may  be  said,  that  antiquarian  articles  interest  but  few 
customers,  and  that  we  may  bawl  ourselves  as  rusty  as 
the  wares  we  deal  in  without  any  one  asking  the  price  of 
our  merchandize.  But  I do  not  rest  my  hopes  upon  this 
department  of  my  labours  only.  I propose  also  to  have 
a corresponding  shop  for  Sentiment,  and  Dialogues,  and 
Disquisition,  which  may  captivate  the  fancy  of  those  who 
have  no  relish,  as  the  established  phrase  goes,  for  pure 
antiquity  ; — a sort  of  green-grocer’s  stall  erected  in  front 
of  my  ironmongery  wares,  garlanding  the  rusty  memorials 
of  ancient  times  with  cresses,  cabbages,  leeks,  and  water 
purpy. 

As  I have  some  idea  that  I am  writing  too  well  to  be 
understood,  I humble  myself  to  ordinary  language,  and 
aver,  with  becoming  modesty,  that  I do  think  myself  ca- 
pable of  sustaining  a publication  of  a miscellaneous  nature, 
as  like  to  the  Spectator,  or  the  Guardian,  the  Mirror,  or 
the  Lounger,  as  my  poor  abilities  may  be  able  to  accom- 
plish. Not  that  I have  any  purpose  of  imitating  Johnson, 
whose  general  learning  and  power  of  expression  I do  not 
deny,  but  many  of  whose  Ramblers  are  little  better  than 
a sort  of  pageant,  where  trite  and  obvious  maxims  are 
made  to  swagger  in  lofty  and  mystic  language,  and  get 
some  credit  only  because  they  are  not  easily  understood. 
There  are  some  of  the  great  moralist’s  papers  which  I 
cannot  peruse  without  thinking  on  a second-rate  masquer- 
ade, where  the  best-known  and  least-esteemed  characters 
in  town  march  in  as  heroes,  and  sultans,  and  so  forth,  and 
by  dint  of  tawdry  dresses,  get  some  consideration  until 
they  are  found  out. — It  is  not,  however,  prudent  to  com- 
mence with  throwing  stones,  just  wdien  I am  striking  out 
windows  of  my  own. 

I think  even  the  local  situation  of  Little  Croftangry 
may  be  considered  as  favourable  to  my  undertaking.  A 
nobler  contrast  there  can  hardly  exist  than  that  of  the 
huge  city,  dark  wit!)  the  smoke  of  ages,  and  groaning  with 
the  various  sounds  of  active  industry  or  idle  revel,  and  the 


68 


CHRONICLES  OF 


lofty  and  craggy  hill,  silent  and  solitary  as  the  grave  ; one 
exhibiting  the  full  tide  of  existence,  pressing  and  precip- 
itating itself  forward  with  the  force  of  an  inundation  , 
the  other  resembling  some  time-worn  anchorite,  whose 
life  passed  as  silent  and  unobserved  as  the  slender  rill 
which  escapes  unheard,  and  scarce  seen,  from  the  fountain 
of  his  patron-saint.  The  city  resembles  the  busy  temple, 
where  the  modern  Comus  and  Mammon  hold  their  court, 
and  thousands  sacrifice  ease,  independence,  and  virtue 
itself,  at  their  shrine  ; the  misty  and  lonely  mountain  seems 
as  a throne  to  the  majestic  but  terrible  Genius  of  feudal 
times,  when  he  dispensed  coronets  and  domains  to  those 
who  had  heads  to  devise,  and  arms  to  execute,  bold  en- 
terprizes. 

3 have,  as  it  were,  the  two  extremities  of  the  moral 
world  at  my  threshold.  From  the  front  door,  a few  min- 
utes’ walk  brings  me  into  the  heart  of  a wealthy  and  pop- 
ulous city  ; as  many  paces  from  my  opposite  entrance, 
places  me  in  a solitude  as  complete  as  Zimmermann  could 
have  desired.  Surely  with  such  aids  to  my  imagination, 

I may  write  better  than  if  3 were  in  a lodging  in  the  New 
Town,  or  a garret  in  the  old.  As  the  Spaniard  says, 
“ y'iamos-Caracco  /” 

3 have  not  chosen  to  publish  periodically,  my  reason 
for  which  was  twofold.  3n  the  first  place,  1 don’t  like  to 
be  hurried,  and  have  had  enough  of  duns  in  an  early  part 
of  my  life,  to  make  me  reluctant  to  hear  of,  or  see  one, 
even  in  the  less  awful  shape  of  a printer’s  devil.  But, 
secondly,  a periodical  paper  is  not  easily  extended  in  cir- 
culation beyond  the  quarter  in  which  it  is  published.  This 
work,  if  published  in  fugitive  numbers,  would  scarce, 
without  a high  pressure  on  the  part  of  the  bookseller,  be' 
raised  above  the  Netherbow,  and  never  could  be  expected 
to  ascend  to  the  level  of  Princess  Street.  Now  I am 
ambitious  that  my  compositions,  though  having  their  origin 
in  this  Valley  of  Holyrood,  should  not  only  be  extended 
into  those  exalted  regions  3 have  mentioned,  but  also  that 
that  they  should  cross  the  Forth,  astonish  the  long  town 
of  Kirkaldy,  enchant  the  skippers  and  coalliers  of  the 


THE  CANONGATE. 


69 


East  of  Fife,  venture  even  into  the  classic  arcades  of  St. 
Andrews,  and  travel  as  much  farther  to  the  north  as  the 
breath  of  applause  will  carry  their  sails.  As  for  a south- 
ward direction,  it  is  not  to  be  hoped  for  in  my  fondest 
dreams.  I am  informed  that  Scotch  literature,  like  Scotch 
whisky,  will  be  presently  laid  under  a prohibitory  duty. — 
But  enough  of  this.  If  any  reader  is  dull  enough  not  to 
comprehend  the  advantages  which,  in  point  of  circulation, 
a compact  book  has  over  a collection  of  fugitive  numbers, 
let  him  try  the  range  of  a gun  loaded  with  hail-shot, 
against  that  of  the  same  piece  charged  with  an  equal 
weight  of  lead  consolidated  in  a single  bullet. 

Besides,  it  was  of  less  consequence  that  I should  have 
published  periodically,  since  I did  not  mean  to  solicit  or 
accept  of  the  contributions  of  friends,  or  the  criticisms 
of  those  who  may  be  less  kindly  disposed.  Notwithstand- 
ing the  excellent  examples  which  might  be  quoted,  I will 
establish  no  begging-box,  either  under  the  name  of  a 
lion’s-head  or  an  ass’s.  What  is  good  or  ill  shall  be  mine 
own,  or  the  contribution  of  friends  to  whom  I may  have 
private  access.  Many  of  my  voluntary  assistants  might 
be  cleverer  than  myself,  and  then  I should  have  a brilliant 
article  appear  among  my  chiller. effusions,  like  a patch  of 
lace  on  a Scotch  cloak  of  Galashiels  grey.  Some  might 
be  worse,  and  then  I must  reject  them,  to  the  injury  of 
the  feelings  of  the  writer,  or  else  insert  them,  to  make  my 
own  darkness  yet  more  opaque  and  palpable.  “ Let 
every  herring,”  says  our  old-fashioned  proverb,  “ hang 
by  his  own  head.” 

One  person,  however,  I may  distinguish,  as  she  is  now 
no  more,  who,  living  to  the  utmost  term  of  human  life, 
honoured  me  with  a great  share  of  her  friendship,  as  in- 
deed we  were  blood-relatives  in  the  Scottish  sense — 
Heaven  knows  how  many  degrees  removed — and  friends 
in  the  sense  of  Old  England.  I mean  the  late  excellent 
and  regretted  Mrs.  Bethune  Baliol.  But  as  I design  this 
admirable  picture  of  the  olden  time  for  a principle  char- 
acter in  my  work,  I will  only  say  here,  that  she  knew  and 
approved  of  my  present  purpose  ; and  though  she  declin- 


70 


CHRONICLES  OF 


ed  to  contribute  to  it  while  she  lived,  from  a sense  of  dig- 
nified retirement,  which  she  thought  became  her  age,  sex, 
and  condition  in  life,  she  left  me  some  materials  for  car- 
rying on  my  proposed  work,  which  I coveted  when  I 
heard  her  detail  them  in  conversation,  and  which  now, 
when  I have  their  substance  in  her  own  handwriting,  1 ac- 
count far  more  valuable  than  anything  I have  myself  to 
offer.  I hope  the  mentioning  her  name  in  conjunction 
with  my  own,  will  give  no  offence  to  any  of  her  numer- 
ous friends,  as  it  was  her  own  express  pleasure  that  I 
should  employ  the  manuscripts,  which  she  did  me  the 
honour  to  bequeath  me,  in  the  manner  in  which  I have 
now  used  them.  It  must  be  added,  however,  that  in  most 
cases  1 have  disguised  names,  and  in  some  have  added 
shading  and  colouring  to  bring  out  the  narrative. 

Many  of  my  materials,  besides  these,  are  derived  from 
friends,  living  or  dead.  In  some  cases  they  may  be  in- 
accurate, and  in  such  I shall  be  happy  to  receive,  from 
sufficient  authority,  the  correction  of  the  errors  which 
must  creep  into  traditional  documents.  The  object  of  the 
whole  publication  is,  to  throw  some  light  on  the  manners 
of  Scotland  as  they  were,  and  to  contrast  them,  occasion- 
ally, with  such  as  now  are  fashionable  in  the  same  country. 
For  my  own  serious  opinion,  it  is  in  favour  of  the  present 
age  in  many  respects,  but  not  in  so  far  as  it  affords  means 
for  exercising  the  imagination,  or  exciting  the  interest 
which  attaches  to  other  times.  I am  glad  to  be  a writer 
or  a reader  in  3 826,  but  1 would  be  most  interested  in 
reading  or  relating  what  happened  from  half  a century 
to  a century  before.  We  have  the  best  of  it.  Scenes 
in  which  our  ancestors  thought  deeply,  acted  fiercely,  and 
died  desperately,  are  to  us  tales  to  divert  the  tedium  of  a 
winter’s  evening,  when  we  are  engaged  to  no  party,  or 
beguile  a summer’s  morning,  when  it  is  too  scorching  to 
ride  or  walk. 

Yet  I do  not  mean  that  my  essays  and  narratives  should 
be  limited  to  Scotland.  I pledge  myself  to  no  particular 
line  of  subjects  ) but,  on  the  contrary,  say  with  Burns, 


TIIE  CANON  HATE. 


71 


Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  a sang, 

Perhaps  turn  out  a sermon. 

1 have  only  to  add,  by  way  of  postscript  to  these  prelim- 
inary chapters,  that  1 have  had  recourse  to  Moliere’s  re- 
cipe, and  read  my  manuscript  over  to  my  old  woman, 
Janet  MacEvoy. 

The  dignity  of  being  consulted  delighted  Janet  ; and 
Wilkie,  or  Allan,  would  have  made  a capital  sketch  of  her, 
as  she  sat  upright  in  her  chair,  instead  of  her  ordinary 
lounging  posture,  knitting  her  stocking  systematically,  as 
if  she  meant  every  twist  of  her  thread,  and  inclination  of 
the  wires,  to  bear  burden  to  the  cadence  of  my  voice. 
1 am  afraid,  too,  that  I myself  felt  more  delight  than  I 
ought  to  have  done  in  my  own  Composition,  and  read  a 
little  more  oratorically  than  I should  have  ventured  to  do 
before  an  auditor,  of  whose  applause  I was  not  so  secure. 
And  the  result  did  not  entirely  encourage  my  plan  of  cen- 
sorship. Janet  did  indeed  seriously  incline  to  the  account 
of  my  previous  life,  and  bestowed  some  Highland  male- 
dictions more  emphatic  than  courteous  on  Christie  Steele’s 
reception  of  a “ shentlemans  in  distress,”  and  of  her  own 
mistress’s  house  too.  I omitted,  for  certain  reasons,  or 
greatly  abridged,  what  related  to  herself.  But  when  I 
came  to  treat  of  my  general  views  in  publication,  I saw 
poor  Janet  was  entirely  thrown  out,  though,  like  a jaded 
hunter,  panting,  puffing,  and  short  of  wind,  she  endeav- 
oured at  least  to  keep  up  with  the  chase.  Or  rather  her 
perplexity  made  her  look  all  the  while  like  a deaf  person 
ashamed  of  his  infirmity,  who  does  not  understand  a word 
you  are  saying,  yet  desires  you  to  believe  that  he  does  un- 
derstand you,  and  who  is  extremely  jealous  that  you  sus- 
pect his  incapacity.  When  she  saw  that  some  remark 
was  necessary,  she  resembled  exactly  in  her  criticism  the 
devotee  who  pitched  on  the  “ sweet  word  Mesopotamia,” 
as  the  most  edifying  note  which  she  could  bring  away  from 
a sermon.  She  indeed  hastened  to  bestow  general  praise 
on  what  she  said  was  all  “ very  fine  but  chiefly  dwelt 
on  what  I had  said  about  Mr.  Timmerman,  as  she  was 


72 


CHRONICLES  OF 


pleased  to  call  the  German  philosopher,  and  supposed  he 
must  be  of  the  same  descent  with  the  Highland  clan  of 
M‘Intyre,  which  signifies  Son  of  the  Carpenter.  “ And 
a fery  honourable  name  too — Shanet’s  own  mither  was  a 
M‘Intyre.” 

In  short,  it  was  plain  the  latter  part  of  my  introduction 
was  altogether  lost  on  poor  Janet  ; and  so,  to  have  acted 
up  to  Moliere’s  system,  1 should  have  cancelled  the  whole, 
and  written  it  anew.  But  I do  not  know  how  it  is ; I re- 
tained, I suppose,  some  tolerable  opinion  of  my  own  com- 
position, though  Janet  did  not  comprehend  it,  and  felt 
loath  to  retrench  those  delilahs  of  the  imagination,  as 
Dryden  calls  them,  the  tropes  and  figures  of  which  are 
caviar  to  the  multitude.  Besides,  I hate  the  re-writing, 
as  much  as  Falstaff  did  the  paying  back — it  is  a double 
labour.  So  I determined  with  myself  to  consult  Janet, 
in  future,  only  on  such  things  as  were  within  the  limits  of 
her  comprehension,  and  hazard  my  arguments  and  my 
rhetoric  on  the  public  without  her  imprimatur.  I am 
pretty  sure  she  will  “ applaud  it  done.”  And  in  such 
narratives  as  come  within  her  range  of  thought  and  feel- 
ing, I shall,  as  1 at  first  intended,  take  the  benefit  of  her 
unsophisticated  judgment,  and  attend  to  it  deferentially — 
that  is,  when  it  happens  not  to  be  in  peculiar  opposition  to 
my  own  ; for,  after  all,  I say  with  Almanzor — 

Know  that  I alone  am  king  of  me. 

The  reader  has  now  my  who  and  my  whereabout,  the 
purpose  of  the  work,  and  the  circumstances  under  which 
it  is  undertaken.  He  has  also  a specimen  of  the  author’s 
talents,  and  may  judge  for  himself,  and  proceed,  or  send 
back  the  volume  to  the  bookseller,  as  his  own  taste  shall 
determine. 


THE  CANONGATE. 


73 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  inoou,  were  she  earth  1}',  no  nobler. 

Coriolanus. 

When  we  set  out  on  the  jolly  voyage  of  life,  what  a 
brave  fleet  there  is  around  us,  as  stretching  our  fresh  can- 
vass to  the  breeze,  all  “ ship-shape  and  Bristol  fashion,” 
pennons  flying,  music  playing,  cheering  each  other  as  we 
pass,  we  are  rather  amused  than  alarmed  when  some  awk- 
ward comrade  goes  right  ashore  for  want  of  pilotage  ! — 
Alas  ! when  the  voyage  is  well  spent,  and  we  look  about 
us,  toil-worn  mariners,  how  few  of  our  ancient  consorts 
still  remain  in  sight,  and  they,  how  torn  and  wasted,  and, 
like  ourselves,  struggling  to  keep  as  long  as  possible  oft' 
the  fatal  shore,  against  which  we  are  all  finally  drifting  ! 

I felt  this  very  trite  but  melancholy  truth  in  all  its  force 
the  other  day,  when  a packet  with  a black  seal  arrived, 
containing  a letter  addressed  to  me  by  my  late  excellent 
friend  Mrs.  Martha  Bethune  Baliol,  and  marked  with  the 
fatal  indorsation,  “ To  be  delivered  according  to  address, 
after  I shall  be  no  more.”  A letter  from  her  executors 
accompanied  the  packet,  mentioning  that  they  had  found 
in  her  will  a bequest  to  me  of  a painting  of  some  value, 
which  she  stated  would  just  fit  the  space  above  my  cup- 
board, and  fifty  guineas  to  buy  a ring.  And  thus  I sep- 
arated, with  all  the  kindness  which  we  had  maintained  for 
many  years,  from  a friend,  who,  though  old  enough  to 
have  been  the  companion  of  my  mother,  was  yet,  in  gaiety 
of  spirits,  and  admirable  sweetness  of  temper,  capable  of 
being  agreeable,  and  even  animating  society,  for  those 
who  write  themselves  in  the  vaward  of  youth  ; an  advan- 
tage which  I have  lost  for  these  five-and-tbirty  years. 
The  contents  of  the  packet  I had  no  difficulty  in  guess- 
7 VOL.  I. 


74 


CHRONICLES  OF 


ing,  and  have  partly  hinted  at  them  in  the  last  chapter. 
But  to  instruct  the  reader  in  the  particulars,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  indulge  myself  with  recalling  the  virtues  and 
agreeable  qualities  of  my  late  friend,  1 will  give  a short 
sketch  of  her  manners  and  habits. 

Mrs.  Martha  Bethune  Baliol  was  a person  of  quality 
and  fortune,  as  these  are  esteemed  in  Scotland.  Her 
family  was  ancient,  and  her  connexions  honourable.  She 
was  not  fond  of  specially  indicating  her  exact  age,  but  her 
juvenile  recollections  stretched  backwards  till  before  the 
eventful  year  1745  ; and  she  remembered  the  Highland 
clans  being  in  possession  of  the  Scottish  capital,  though 
probably  only  as  an  indistinct  vision.  Her  fortune,  inde- 
pendent by  her  father’s  bequest,  was  rendered  opulent  by 
the  death  of  more  than  one  brave  brother,  who  fell  suc- 
cessively in  the  service  of  their  country  ; so  that  the 
family  estates  became  vested  in  the  only  surviving  child 
of  the  ancient  house  of  Bethune  Baliol.  My  intimacy  was 
formed  with  the  excellent  lady  after  this  event,  and  when 
she  was  already  something  advanced  in  age. 

She  inhabited,  when  in  Edinburgh,  where  she  regularly 
spent  the  winter  season,  one  of  those  old  hotels,  which, 
till  of  late,  were  to  be  found  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
Canongate,  and  of  the  Palace  of  Holy  rood-house,  and 
which,  separated  from  the  street,  now  dirty  and  vulgar,  by 
paved  courts,  and  gardens  of  jsome  extent,  made  amends 
for  an  indifferent  access,  by  showing  something  of  aristo- 
cratic state  and  seclusion,  when  you  were  once  admitted 
within  their  precincts.  They  have  pulled  her  house 
down  ; for,  indeed,  betwixt  building  and  burning,  every 
ancient  monument  of  the  Scottish  capital  is  now  likely  to 
be  utterly  demolished.  I pause  on  the  recollections  of 
the  place,  however  ; and  since  nature  has  denied  a pencil 
when  she  placed  a pen  in  my  hand,  I will  endeavour  to 
make  words  answer  the  purpose  of  delineation. 

Baliol’s  Lodging,  so  was  the  mansion  named,  reared  its 
high  stack  of  chimneys,  among  which  were  seen  a turret 
or  two,  and  one  of  these  small  projecting  platforms  called 
bartizans,  above  the  mean  and  modern  buildings  which 


TIIE  CANONGATE. 


75 


line  the  south  side  of  the  Canongate,  towards  the  lower 
end  of  that  street,  and  not  distant  from  the  palace.  A 
porte  cochere , having  a wicket  for  foot  passengers,  was, 
upon  due  occasion,  unfolded  by  a lame  old  man,  tall,  grave, 
and  thin,  who  tenanted  a hovel  beside  the  gate,  and  acted 
as  porter.  To  this  office  he  had  been  promoted  by  my 
friend’s  charitable  feelings  for  an  old  soldier,  and  partly 
by  an  idea,  that  his  head,  which  was  a very  fine  one,  bore 
some  resemblance  to  that  of  Garrick  in  the  character  of 
Lusignan.  He  was  a man  saturnine,  silent,  and  slow  in 
his  proceedings,  and  would  never  open  the  porte  cochere 
to  a hackney  coach  ; indicating  the  wicket  with  his  finger, 
as  the  proper  passage  for  all  who  came  in  that  obscure 
vehicle,  which  was  not  permitted  to  degrade  with  its  tick- 
eted presence  the  dignity  of  Baliol’s  Lodging.  I do  not 
think  this  peculiarity  would  have  met  with  his  lady’s  ap- 
probation, any  more  than  the  occasional  partiality  of  Lu- 
signan, or,  as  mortals  called  him,  Archy  Macready,  to  a 
dram.  But  Mrs.  Martha  Betlmne  Baliol,  conscious  that, 
in  case  of  conviction,  she  could  never  have  prevailed  upon 
herself  to  dethrone  the  King  of  Palestine  from  the  stone 
bench  on  which  he  sat  for  hours,  knitting  his  stocking, 
refused,  by  accrediting  the  intelligence,  even  to  put  him 
upon  his  trial  ; well  judging,  that  he  would  observe  more 
wholesome  caution  if  he  conceived  his  character  unsus- 
pected, than  if  he  were  detected,  and  suffered  to  pass  un- 
punished. For  after  all,  she  said,  it  w-ould  be  cruel  to 
dismiss  an  old  Highland  soldier,  for  a peccadillo  so  appro- 
priate to  his  country  ard  profession. 

The  stately  gate  for  carriages,  or  the  humble  accom- 
modation for  foot  passengers,  admitted  into  a narrow  and 
short  passage,  running  between  two  rows  of  lime-trees, 
whose  green  foliage,  during  the  spring,  contrasted  strange- 
ly with  the  swart  complexion  of  the  two  walls  by  the  side 
of  which  they  grew.  This  access  led  to  the  front  of  the 
house,  which  w^as  formed  by  two  gable  ends,  notched, 
and  having  their  windows  adorned  with  heavy  architec- 
tural ornaments  ; they  joined  each  other  at  right  angles; 
and  a half  circular  tower,  which  contained  the  entrance 


76 


CHRONICLES  OF 


and  the  staircase,  occupied  the  point  of  junction,  and 
rounded  the  acute  angle.  One  of  other  two  sides  of  the 
little  court,  in  which  there  was  just  sufficient  room  to 
turn  a carriage,  was  occupied  by  some  low  buildings  an- 
swering the  purpose  of  offices  ; the  other,  by  a parapet 
surrounded  by  a highly-ornamented  iron  railing,  twined 
round  .with  honeysuckle  and  other  parasitical  shrubs, 
which  permitted  the  eye  to  peep  into  a pretty  suburban 
garden,  extending  down  to  the  road  called  the  South  Back 
of  the  Canongate,  and  boasting  a number  of  old  trees, 
many  flowers,  and  even  some  fruit.  We  must  not  forget 
to  state,  that  the  extreme  cleanliness  of  the  court-yard  was 
such  as  intimated  that  mop  and  pail  had  done  their  utmost 
in  that  favoured  spot,  to  atone  for  the  general  dirt  and 
dinginess  of  the  quarter  where  the  premises  were  situated. 

Over  the  doorway  were  the  arms  of  Bethune  and  Ba- 
liol,  with  various  other  devices  carved  in  stone  ; the  door 
itself  was  studded  with  iron  nails,  and  formed  of  black 
oak  ; an  iron  rasp,*  as  it  was  called,  was  placed  on  it,  in- 
stead of  a knocker,  for  the  purpose  of  summoning  the 
attendants.  He  who  usually  appeared  at  the  summons, 
was  a smart  lad,  in  a handsome  livery,  the  son  of  Mrs. 
Martha’s  gardener  at  Mount  Baliol.  Now  and  then  a ser- 
vant girl,  nicely  but  plainly  dressed,  and  fully  accoutred 
with  stockings  and  shoes,  would  perform  this  duty  ; and 
twdce  or  thrice  I remember  being  admitted  by  Beauffet 
himself,  whose  exterior  looked  as  much  like  that  of  a 
clergyman  of  rank  as  the  butler  of  a gentleman’s  family. 
He  had  been  valet-de-chambre  to  the  last  Sir  Richard 
Bethune  Baliol,  and  wTas  a person  highly  trusted  by  the 
present  lady.  A full  stand,  as  it  is  called  in  Scotland,  of 
garments  of  a dark  colour,  gold  buckles  in  his  shoes,  and 
at  the  knees  of  his  breeches,  with  his  hair  regularly  dressed 
and  powTdered,  announced  him  to  be  a domestic  of  trust 
and  importance.  His  mistress  used  to  say  of  him, 

He’s  sad  and  civil, 

And  suits  well  for  a servant  with  my  fortunes. 


* See  Chambers’s  Traditions  of  Edinburgh 


THE  CANONGATE 


77 


As  no  one  can  escape  scandal,  some  said  that  Beauffet 
made  a rather  better  tiling  of  the  place  than  the  mod- 
esty of  his  old-fashioned  wages  would,  unassisted,  have 
amounted  to.  But  the  man  was  always  very  civil  to  me. 
He  had  been  long  in  the  family  ; had  enjoyed  legacies, 
and  laid  by  a something  of  his  own,  upon  which  he  now 
enjoys  ease  with  dignity,  in  as  far  as  his  newly-married 
wife,  Tibbie  Shortacres,  will  permit  him. 

The  Lodging — Dearest  reader,  if  you  are  tired,  pray 
pass  over  the  next  four  or  five  pages — was  not  by  any 
means  so  large  as  its  external  appearance  led  people  to 
conjecture.  The  interior  accommodation  was  much  cut 
up  by  cross  walls  and  long  passages,  and  that  neglect  of 
economizing  space  which  characterizes  old  Scottish  archi- 
tecture. But  there  was  far  more  room  than  my  old  friend 
required,  even  when  she  had,  a$  was  often  the  case,  four 
or  five  young  cousins  under  her  protection  ; and  1 believe 
much  of  the  house  was  unoccupied.  Mrs.  Bethune  Ba- 
liol  never,  in  my  presence,  showed  herself  so  much  of- 
fended, as  once  with  a meddling  person  who  advised  her 
to  have  the  windows  of  these  supernumerary  apartments 
built  up,  to  save  the  tax.  She  said  in  ire,  that,  while  she 
lived,  the  light  of  God  should  visit  the  house  of  her  fath- 
ers ; and  while  she  had  a penny,  king  and  country  should 
have  their  due.  Indeed,  she  was  punctiliously  loyal,  even 
in  that  most  staggering  test  of  loyalty,  the  payment  of  im- 
posts. Mr.  Beauffet  told  me  he  was  ordered  to  offer  a 
glass  of  wine  to  the  person  who  cqllected  the  income  tax, 
and  that  the  pW) r man  was  so  overcome  by  a reception 
so  unwontedly  generous,  that  he  had  well  nigh  fainted  on 
the  spot. 

You  entered  by  a matted  ante-room  into  the  eating  par- 
lour, filled  with  old-fashioned  furniture,  and  hung  with 
family  portraits,  which,  excepting  one  of  Sir  Bernard  Be- 
thune, in  James  the  Sixth’s  time,  said  to  be  by  Jameson, 
were  exce  • lingly  frightful.  A saloon,  as  it  was  called, 
a long  narrow  chamber,  led  out  of  the  dining-parlour, 
and  served  for  a drawing-room.  It  was  a pleasant  apart- 


78 


CHRONICLES  OF 


ment,  looking  out  upon  the  south  flank  of  Holyrood-house, 
the  gigantic  slope  of  Arthur’s  Seat,  and  the  girdle  of  lofty 
rocks,  called  Salisbury  Crags;  objects  so  rudely  wild, 
that  the  mind  can  hardly  conceive  them  to  exist  in  the 
vicinage  of  a populous  metropolis.  The  paintings  of  the 
saloon  came  from  abroad,  and  had  some  of  them  much 
merit.  To  see  the  best  of  them,  however,  you  must  be 
admitted  into  the  very  penetralia  of  the  temple,  and  al- 
lowed to  draw  the  tapestry  at  the  upper  end  of  the  saloon, 
and  enter  Mrs.  Martha’s  own  special  dressing-room.  This 
was  a charming  apartment,  of  which  it  would  be  difficult 
to  describe  the  form,  it  had  so  many  recesses  which  were 
filled  up  with  shelves  of  ebony,  and  cabinets  of  japan  and 
or  molu  ; some  for  holding  books,  of  which  Mrs.  Martha 
had  an  admirable  collection,  some  for  a display  of  orna- 
mental china,  others  for  shells  and  similar  curiosities.  In 
a little  niche,  half  screened  by  a curtain  of  crimson  silk, 
was  disposed  a suit  of  tilting  armour  of  bright  steel,  in- 
laid with  silver,  which  had  been  worn  on  some  memora- 
ble occasion  by  Sir  Bernard  Bethune,  already  mentioned  ; 
while  over  the  canopy  of  the  niche,  hung  the  broad-sword 
with  which  her  father  had  attempted  to  change  the  for- 
tunes of  Britain  in  1715,  and  the  spontoon  which  her 
elder  brother  bore  when  he  was  leading  on  a company  of 
the  Black  Watch  at  Fontenoy. 

There  were  some  Italian  and  Flemish  pictures  of  ad- 
mitted authenticity,  a few  genuine  bronzes  and  other  ob- 
jects of  curiosity,  which  her  brothers  or  herself  had  picked 
up  while  abroad.  In  short,  it  was  a place  where  the  idle 
were  tempted  to  become  studious,  the  studious  to  grow 
idle — where  the  grave  might  find  matter  to  make  them 
gay,  and  the  gay  subjects  for  gravity. 

That  it  might  maintain  some  title  to  its  name,  I must 
not  forget  to  say,  that  the  lady’s  dressing-room  exhibited 
a superb  mirror,  framed  in  silver  filigree  work  ; a beau- 
tiful toilette,  the  cover  of  which  was  of  Flanders  lace  ; 
and  a set  of  boxes  corresponding  in  materials  and  work  to 
the  frame  of  the  mirror. 


THE  CANON  GATE . 


79 


This  dressing  apparatus,  however,  was  mere  matter  of 
parade  : Mrs.  Martha  Bethune  Baliol  always  went  through 
the  actual  duties  of  the  toilette  in  an  inner  apartment, 
which  corresponded  with  her  sleeping-room  by  a small 
detached  staircase.  There  were,  I believe,  more  than 
one  of  those  turnpike  stairs , as  they  were  called,  about 
the  house,  by  which  the  public  rooms,  all  of  which  entered 
through  each  other,  were  accommodated  with  separate 
and  independent  modes  of  access.  In  the  little  boudoir 
we  have  described,  Mrs.  Martha  Baliol  had  her  choicest 
meetings.  She  kept  early  hours  ; and  if  you  went  in  the 
morning,  you  must  not  reckon  that  space  of  day  as  ex- 
tending beyond  three  o’clock,  or  four  at  the  utmost. 
These  vigilant  habits  were  attended  with  some  restraint  on 
her  visiters,  but  they  were  indemnified  by  your  always 
finding  the  best  society,  and  the  best  information,  which 
was  to  be  had  for  the  day  in  the  Scottish  capital.  With- 
out at  all  affecting  the  blue  stocking,  she  liked  books — 
they  amused  her — and  if  the  authors  were  persons  of 
character,  she  thought  she  owed  them  a debt  of  civility, 
which  she  loved  to  discharge  by  personal  kindness.  When 
she  gave  a dinner  to  a small  party,  which  she  did  now’ 
and  then,  she  had  the  good-nature  to  look  for,  and  the  good 
luck  to  discover,  what  sort  of  people  suited  each  other 
best,  and  chose  her  company  as  Duke  Theseus  did  his 
hounds, 

— - match’d  in  mouth  like  bells, 

Each  under  each. 

so  that  every  guest  could  take  his  part  in  the  cry ; instead 
of  one  mighty  Tom  of  a fellow,  like  Dr.  Johnson,  silenc- 
ing all  besides  by  the  tremendous  depth  of  his  diapason. 
On  such  occasions  she  offered  chere  exquise  ; and  every 
now  and  then  there  was  some  dish  of  French,  or  even 
Scottish  derivation,  which,  as  well  as  the  numerous  assort- 
ment of  vins  extraordinaires  produced  by  Mr.  Beauffet, 
gave  a sort  of  antique  and  foreign  air  to  the  entertainment, 
which  rendered  it  more  interesting. 


80 


CHRONICLES  OF 


It  was  a great  thing  to  be  asked  to  such  parties,  and 
not  less  so  to  be  invited  to  the  early  conversazione , which, 
in  spite  of  fashion,  by  dint  ctf  the  best  coffee,  the  finest 
tea,  and  cliasse  cafe  that  would  have  called  the  dead  to 
life,  she  contrived  now  and  then  to  assemble  in  her  saloon 
already  mentioned,  at  the  unnatural  hour  of  eight  in  the 
evening.  At  such  times,  the  cheerful  old  lady  seemed  to 
enjoy  herself  so  much  in  the  happiness  of  her  guests,  that 
they  exerted  themselves  in  turn  to  prolong  her  amusement 
and  their  own  $ and  a certain  charm  was  excited  around, 
seldom  to  he  met  with  in  parties  of  pleasure,  and  which 
was  founded  on  the  general  desire  of  every  one  present 
to  contribute  something  to  the  common  amusement. 

But  although  it  was  a great  privilege  to  be  admitted  to 
wait  on  my  excellent  friend  in  the  morning,  or  to  be  in- 
vited to  her  dinner  or  evening  parties,  I prized  still  higher 
the  right  which  I had  acquired,  by  old  acquaintance,  of 
visiting  BalioPs  Lodging,  upon  the  chance  of  finding  its 
venerable  inhabitant  preparing  for  tea,  just  about  six 
o'clock  in  the  evening.  It  was  only  to  two  or  three  old 
friends  that  she  permitted  this  freedom,  nor  was  this  sort 
of  chance-party  ever  allowed  to  extend  itself  beyond  five 
in  number.  The  answer  to  those  who  came  later,  an- 
nounced that  the  company  was  filled  up  for  the  evening  ; 
which  had  the  double  effect,  of  making  those  who  waited 
on  Sirs.  Bethune  Baliol  in  this  unceremonious  manner 
punctual  in  observing  her  hour,  and  of  adding  the  zest  of 
a little  difficulty  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  party. 

It  more  frequently  happened  that  only  one  or  two  per- 
sons partook  of  this  refreshment  on  the  same  evening  ; 
or,  supposing  the  case  of  a single  gentleman,  Mrs.  Mar- 
tha, though  she  did  not  hesitate  to  admit  him  to  her  bou- 
doir, after  the  privilege  of  the  French  and  the  old  Scottish 
school,  took  care,  as  she  used  to  say,  to  preserve  all  pos- 
sible propriety,  by  commanding  the  attendance  of  her 
principal  female  attendant,  Mrs.  Alice  Lambskin,  who 
might,  from  the  gravity  and  dignity  of  her  appearance, 
have  sufficed  to  matronize  a whole  boarding-school,  in- 
stead of  one  maiden  lady  of  eighty  and  upwards.  As 


THE  CANONGATE. 


81 


the  weather  permitted,  Mrs.  Alifce  sat  duly  remote  from 
the  company  in  a fauteuil  behind  the  projecting  chimney- 
piece,  or  in  the  embrasure  of  a window,  and  prosecuted 
in  Carthusian  silence,  with  indefatigable  zeal,  a piece  of 
embroidery,  which  seemed  no  bad  emblem  of  eternity. 

But  1 have  neglected  all  this  while  to  introduce  my 
friend  herself  to  the  reader,  at  least  so  far  as  words  can 
convey  the  peculiarities  by  which  her  appearance  and  con- 
versation were  distinguished. 

A little  woman,  with  ordinary  features  and  an  ordinary 
form,  and  hair,  which  in  youth  had  no  decided  colour,  we 
may  believe  Mrs.  Martha,  when  she  said  of  herself  that 
she  was  never  remarkable  for  personal  charms  ; a modest 
admission,  which  was  readily  confirmed  by  certain  old 
ladies,  hercontemporaries,  who,  whatever  might  have  been 
the  youthful  advantages  which  they  more  than  hinted  had 
been  formally  their  own  share,  were  now,  in  personal  ap- 
pearance, as  well  as  in  every  thing  else,  far  inferior  to  my 
accomplished  friend.  Mrs.  Martha’s  features  had  been 
of  a kind  which  might  be  said  to  wear  well ; their  irreg- 
ularity was  now  of  little  consequence,  animated  as  they 
were  by  the  vivacity  of  her  conversation  ; her  teeth  were 
excellent,  and  her  eyes,  although  inclining  to  grey,  were 
lively,  laughing,  and  undimmed  by  time.  A slight  shade 
of  complexion,  more  brilliant  than  her  years  promised, 
subjected  my  friend  amongst  strangers  to  the  suspicion  of 
having  stretched  her  foreign  habits  as  far  as  the  prudent 
touch  of  the  rouge.  But  it  was  a calumny  ; for  when 
telling  or  listening  to  an  interesting  and  affecting  story,  I 
have  seen  her  colour  come  and  go  as  if  it  played  on  the 
cheek  of  eighteen. 

Her  hair,  whatever  its  former  deficiencies,  was  now 
the  most  beautiful  white  that  time  could  bleach,  and  was 
disposed  with  some  degree  of  pretension,  though  in  the 
simplest  manner  possible,  so  as  to  appear  neatly  smoothed 
under  a cap  of  Flanders  lace,  of  an  old-fashioned,  but, 
as  I thought,  of  a very  handsome  form,  which  undoubt- 
edly has  a name,  and  I would  endeavour  to  recur  to  it, 
if  I thought  it  would  make  my  description  a bit  more  in- 


82 


CHRONICLES  OF 


telligible.  I think  I have  heard  her  say  these  favourite 
caps  had  been  her  mother’s,  and  had  come  in  fashion 
with  a peculiar  kind  of  wig  used  by  the  gentlemen  about 
the  time  of  the  battle  of  Ramillies.  The  rest  of  her  dress 
was  always  rather  costly  and  distinguished,  especially  in 
the  evening.  A silk  or  satin  gown  of  some  colour  becom- 
ing her  age,  and  of  a form,  which,  though  complying  to 
a certain  degree  with  the  present  fashion,  had  always  a 
reference  to  some  more  distant  period,  was  garnished  with 
triple  ruffles  ; her  shoes  had  diamond  buckles,  and  were 
raised  a little  at  heel,  an  advantage  which,  possessed  in 
her  youth,  she  alleged  her  size  would  not  permit  her  to 
forego  in  her  old  age.  She  always  wore  rings,  bracelets, 
and  other  ornaments  of  value,  either  for  the  materials  or 
the  workmanship  ; nay,  perhaps  she  was  a little  profuse 
in  this  species  of  display.  But  she  wore  them  as  subor- 
dinate matters,  to  which  the  habits  of  being  constantly  in 
high  life  rendered  her  indifferent ; she  wore  them  because 
her  rank  required  it,  and  thought  no  more  of  them  as 
articles  of  finery,  than  a gentleman  dressed  for  dinner 
thinks  on  his  clean  linen  and  well-brushed  coat,  the  con- 
sciousness of  which  embarrasses  the  rustic  beau  of  a 
Sunday. 

Now  and  then,  however,  if  a gem  or  ornament  chanced 
to  be  noticed  for  its  beauty  or  singularity,  the  observation 
usually  led  the  way  to  an  entertaining  account  of  the  man- 
ner in  which  it  had  been  acquired,  or  the  person  from 
whom  it  had  descended  to  its  present  possessor.  On  such 
and  similar  occasions  my  old  friend  spoke  willingly,  which 
is  not  uncommon,  but  she  also,  which  is  more  rare,  spoke 
remarkably  well,  and  had  in  her  little  narratives  concern- 
ing foreign  parts,  or  former  days,  which  formed  an  inter- 
esting part  of  her  conversation,  the  singular  art  of  dismis- 
sing all  the  usual  protracted  tautology  respecting  time, 
place,  and  circumstances,  which  is  apt  to  settle  like  a mist 
upon  the  cold  and  languid  tales  of  age,  and  at  the  same 
time  of  bringing  forward,  dwelling  upon,  and  illustrating, 
those  incidents  and  characters  which  give  point  and  in- 
terest to  the  story. 


THE  CANONGATE. 


83 


She  had,  as  we  have  hinted,  travelled  a good  deal  in 
foreign  countries;  for  a brother,  to  whom  she  was  much 
attached,  had  been  sent  upon  various  missions  of  national 
importance  to  the  continent,  and  she  had  more  than  once 
embraced  the  opportunity  of  accompanying  him.  This 
furnished  a great  addition  to  the  information  which  she 
could  supply,  especially  during  the  last  war,  when  the  con- 
tinent was  for  so  many  years  hermetically  sealed  against 
the  English  nation.  But,  besides,  Mrs.  Bethune  Baliol 
visited  distant  countries,  not  as  is  the  modern  fashion,  when 
English  travel  in  caravans  together,  and  see  in  France 
and  Italy  little  besides  the  same  society  which  they  might 
have  enjoyed  at  home.  On  the  contrary,  she  mingled 
when  abroad  with  the  natives  of  those  countries  she  visited, 
and  enjoyed  at  once  the  advantage  of  their  society,  and 
the  pleasure  of  comparing  it  with  that  of  Britain. 

In  the  course  of  her  becoming  habituated  with  foreign 
manners,  Mrs.  Bethune  Baliol  had,  perhaps,  acquired 
some  slight  tincture  of  them  herself.  Yet  1 was  al- 
ways persuaded,  that  the  peculiar  vivacity  of  look  and 
manner — the  pointed  and  appropriate  action  with* which 
she  accompanied  what  she  said — the  use  of  the  gold  and 
gemmed  t abaticre , or  rather  I should  say  bonbonniere , 
(for  she  took  no  snuff,  and  the  little  box  contained  only  a 
few7  pieces  of  candied  angelica,  or  some  such  lady-like 
sweetmeat,)  were  of  real  old-fashioned  Scottish  growth, 
and  such  as  might  have  graced  the  tea-table  of  Susannah, 
Countess  of  Eglinton,  the  patroness  of  Allan  Ramsay,  or 
of  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Colonel  Ogilvy,  who  was  another  mirror 
by  whom  the  maidens  of  Auld  Reekie  were  required  to 
dress  themselves.  Although  well  acquainted  with  the 
customs  of  other  countries,  her  manners  had  been  chiefly 
formed  in  her  own,  at  a time  when  great  folk  lived  within 
little  space,  and  when  the  distinguished  names  of  the  high- 
est society  gave  to  Edinburgh  the  eclat , which  we  now 
endeavour  to  derive  from  the  unbounded  expense  and  ex- 
tended circle  of  our  pleasures. 

I was  more  confirmed  in  this  opinion,  by  the  peculiarity 
of  the  dialect  which  Mrs.  Baliol  used.  It  was  Scottish, 


84 


CHRONICLES  OF 


decidedly  Scottish,  often  containing  phrases  and  words 
little  used  in  the  present  day.  But  then  her  tone  and  mode 
of  pronunciation  were  as  different  from  the  usual  accent 
of  the  ordinary  Scotch  patois , as  the  accent  of  St.  James’s 
is  from  that  of  Billingsgate.  The  vowels  were  not  pro- 
nounced much  broader  than  in  the  Italian  language,  and 
there  was  none  of  the  disagreeable  drawl  which  is  so  of- 
fensive to  southern  ears,  in  short,  it  seemed  to  be  the 
Scottish  as  spoken  by  the  ancient  court  of  Scotland,  to 
which  no  idea  of  vulgarity  could  be  attached  ; and  the 
lively  manner  and  gestures  with  which  it  was  accompa- 
nied, were  so  completely  in  accord  with  the  sound  of  the 
voice  and  the  manner  of  talking,  that  1 cannot  assign  them 
a different  origin.  Jn  long  derivation,  perhaps  the  manner 
of  the  Scottish  court  might  have  been  originally  formed 
on  that  of  France,  to  which  it  had  certainly  some  affinity  ; 
but  1 will  live  and  die  in  the  belief,  that  those  of  Mrs. 
Baliol,  as  pleasing  as  they  were  peculiar,  came  to  her  by 
direct  descent  from  the  high  dames  who  anciently  adorned 
with  their  presence  the  royal  halls  of  Holy  rood. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


Such  as  I have  described  Mrs.  Bethune  Baliol,  the 
reader  will  easily  believe  that  when  I thought  of  the  mis- 
cellaneous nature  of  my  work,  I rested  upon  the  informa- 
tion she  possessed,  and  her  communicative  disposition,  as 
one  of  the  principal  supports  of  my  enterprize.  Indeed, 
she  by  no  means  disapproved  of  my  proposed  publication, 
though  expressing  herself  very  doubtful  how  far  she  could 
personally  assist  it ; a doubt  which  might  be  perhaps  set 
down  to  a little  lady-like  coquetry,  which  required  to  be 
sued  for  the  boon  she  was  not  unwilling  to  grant.  Or, 
perhaps,  the  good  old  lady,  conscious  that  her  unusual 


THE  CANON GATE. 


85 


term  of  years  must  soon  draw  to  a close,  preferred  be- 
queathing the  materials  in  the  shape  of  a legacy,  to  sub- 
jecting them  to  the  judgment  of  a critical  public  during 
her  lifetime. 

Many  a time  I used,  in  our  conversations  of  the  Can- 
ongate,  to  resume  my  request  of  an  assistance,  from  a sense 
that  my  friend  was  the  most  valuable  depositary  of  Scot- 
tish traditions  that  was  probably  now  to  be  found.  This 
was  a subject  on  which  my  mind  was  so  much  made  up, 
that  when  1 heard  her  carry  her  description  of  manners  so 
far  back  beyond  her  own  time,  and  describe  how  Fletcher 
of  Salton  spoke,  how  Graham  of  Claverhouse  danced, 
what  were  the  jewels  worn  by  the  famous  Duchess  of 
Lauderdale,  and  how  she  came  by  them,  I 'could  not  help 
telling  her  1 thought  her  some  fairy,  who  cheated  us  by 
retaining  the  appearance  of  a mortal  of  our  own  day, 
when,  in  fact,  she  had  witnessed  the  revolutions  of  cen- 
turies. She  was  much  diverted  when  I required  her  to 
take  some  solemn  oath  that  she  had  not  danced  at  the  balls 
given  by  Mary  of  Este,  when  her  unhappy  husband  oc- 
cupied Holyrood  in  a species  of  honourable  banishment ; 
— or  asked,  whether  she  could  not  recollect  Charles  the 
Second,  when  he  came  to  Scotland  in  1650,  and  did  not 
possess  some  slight  recollections  of  the  bold  usurper,  who 
drove  him  beyond  the  Forth. 

“ Beau  cousin ,”  she  said,  laughing,  “ none  of  these  do 
I remember  personally  ; but  you  must  know  there  has 
been  wonderful  little  change  on  my  natural  temper  from 
youth  to  age.  From  which  it  follows,  cousin,  that  being 
even  now  something  too  young  in  spirit  for  the  years 
which  Time  has  marked  me  in  his  calendar,  I was,  when 
a girl,  a little  too  old  for  those  of  my  own  standing,  and  as 
much  inclined  at  that  period  to  keep  the  society  of  elder 
persons,  as  I am  now  disposed  to  admit  the  company  of 
gay  young  fellows  of  fifty  or  sixty  like  yourself,  rather  than 
collect  about  me  all  the  octogenarians.  Now,  although  I 
do  not  actually  come  from  Elfland,  and  therefore  cannot 
boast  any  personal  knowledge  of  the  great  personages  you 

8 VOL.  I. 


86 


CHRONICLES  OF 


inquire  about,  yet  I have  seen  and  heard  those  who  knew 
them  well,  and  who  have  given  me  as  distinct  an  account 
of  them  as  I could  give  you  myself  of  the  Empress 
Queen,  or  Frederick  of  Prussia  ; and  I will  frankly  add,” 
said  she,  laughing  and  offering  her  bonbonniere , “ that  I 
have  heard  so  much  of  the  years  which  immediately  suc- 
ceeded the  Revolution,  that  I sometimes  am  apt  to  con- 
fuse the  vivid  descriptions  fixed  on  my  memory  by  the 
frequent  and  animated  recitation  of  others,  for  things  which 
I myself  have  actually  witnessed.  I caught  myself  hut 

yesterday  describing  to  Lord  M the  riding  of  the  last 

Scottish  Parliament,  with  as  much  minuteness  as  if  I had 
seen  it,  as  my  mother  did,  from  the  balcony  in  front  of 
Lord  Moray’s  Lodging  in  the  Canongate.” 

“ I am  sure  you  must  have  given  Lord  M a high 

treat.” 

“ I treated  him  to  a hearty  laugh,  I believe,”  she  re- 
plied ; “ hut  it  is  you,  you  vile  seducer  of  youth,  who  lead 
me  into  such  follies.  But  I will  be  on  my  guard  against 
my  own  weakness.  I do  not  well  know  if  the  wandering 
Jew  is  supposed  to  have  a wife,  but  I should  be  sorry  a 
decent  middle-aged  Scottish  gentlewoman  should  be  sus- 
pected of  identity  with  such  a supernatural  person.” 

“ For  all  that,  I must  torture  you  a little  more,  mu  belle 
cousine , with  my  interrogatories  ; for  how  shall  1 ever  turn 
author  unless  on  the  strength  of  the  information  which  you 
have  so  often  procured  me  on  the  ancient  state  of  man- 
ners 9” 

“ Stay,  I cannot  allow  you  to  give  your  points  of  in- 
quiry a name  so  very  venerable,  if  I am  expected  to  an- 
swer them.  Ancient  is  a term  for  antediluvians.  You 
may  catechise  me  about  the  battle  of  Flodden,  or  ask 
particulars  about  Bruce  and  Wallace,  under  pretext  of 
curiosity  after  ancient  manners  ; and  that  last  subject 
would  wake  my  Baliol  blood  you  know.” 

“ Well,  but,  Mrs.  Baliol,  suppose  we  settle  our  sera  : — 
you  do  not  call  the  accession  of  James  the  Sixth  to  the 
kingdom  of  Britain  very  ancient  *?” 


THE  CANON GATE* 


87 


“ Umph  ! no,  cousin — I think  I can  tell  you  more  of 
that  than  folk  now-a-days  remember, — for  instance,  that 
as  James  was  trooping  towards  England,  bag  and  baggage, 
his  journey  was  stopped  near  Coekenzie  by  meeting  the 
funeral  of  the  Earl  of  Winton,  the  old  and  faithful  ser- 
vant and  follower  of  his  ill-fated  mother,  poor  Id  ary  ! It 
was  an  ill  omen  for  the  infare , and  so  was  seen  of  it, 
cousin.” 

I did  not  choose  to  prosecute  this  subject,  well  knowing 
Mrs.  Bethune  Baliol  did  not  like  to  be  much  pressed  on 
the  subject  of  the  Stuarts,  whose  misfortunes  she  pitied, 
the  rather  that  her  father  had  espoused  their  cause.  And 
yet  her  attachment  to  the  present  dynasty  being  very  sin- 
cere, and  even  ardent,  more  especially  as  her  family  had 
served  his  late  Majesty  both  in  peace  and  war,  she 
experienced  a little  embarrassment  in  reconciling  her 
opinions  respecting  the  exiled  family,  with  those  she  en- 
tertained for  the  present.  In  fact,  like  many  an  old  Jaco- 
bite, she  was  contented  to  be  somewhat  inconsistent  on 
the  subject,  comforting  herself,  that  now  everything  stood 
as  it  ought  to  do,  and  that  there  was  no  use  in  looking 
back  narrowly  on  the  right  or  wrong  of  the  matter  half  a 
century  ago. 

“ The  Highlands,”  I suggested,  “ should  furnish  you 
with  ample  subjects  of  recollection.  You  have  witnessed 
the  complete  change  of  that  primeval  country,  and  have 
seen  a race  not  far  removed  from  the  earliest  period  of 
society,  melted  down  into  the  great  mass  of  civilization  ; 
and  that  could  not  happen  without  incidents  striking  in 
themselves,  and  curious  as  chapters  in  the  history  of  the 
human  race.” 

“ It  is  very  true,”  said  Mrs.  Baliol ; “ one  would  think 
it  should  have  struck  the  observers  greatly,  and  yet  it 
scarcely  did  so.  For  me,  I was  no  Highlander  myself, 
and  the  Highland  chiefs  of  old,  of  whom  I certainly  knew 
several,  had  little  in  their  manners  to  distinguish  them 
from  the  Lowland  gentry,  when  they  mixed  in  society  in 
Edinburgh,  and  assumed  the  Lowland  dress.  Their  pe- 
culiar character  was  for  the  clansmen  at  home  ; and  you 


88  ‘ 


CHRONICLES  OF 


must  not  imagine  that  they  swaggered  about  in  plaids  and 
broadswords  at  the  Cross,  or  come  to  the  Assembly- 
Rooms  in  bonnets  and  kilts.” 

“ 1 remember,”  said  1,  “ that  Swift,  in  his  Journal, 
tells  Stella  he  had  dined  in  the  house  of  a Scotch  noble- 
man, with  two  Highland  chiefs,  whom  he  had  found  as 
well-bred  men  as  he  had  ever  met  with.” 

“ Very  likely,”  said  my  friend.  “ The  extremes  of 
society  approach  much  more  closely  to  each  other  than 
perhaps  the  Dean  of  Saint  Patrick’s  expected.  The  sav- 
age is  always  to  a certain  degree  polite.  Besides,  going 
always  armed,  and  having  a very  punctilious  idea  of  their 
own  gentility  and  consequence,  they  usually  behaved  to 
each  other  and  to  the  Lowlanders,  with  a good  deal  of 
formal  politeness,  which  sometimes  even  procured  them 
the  character  of  insincerity.” 

“ Falsehood  belongs  to  an  early  period  of  society,  as 
well  as  the  deferential  forms  which  we  style  politeness,”  I 
replied.  “ A child  does  not  see  the  least  moral  beauty 
in  truth,  until  he  has  been  flogged  half-a-dozen  times. 
It  is  so  easy,  and  apparently  so  natural,  to  deny  what  we 
cannot  be  easily  convicted  of,  that  a savage  as  well  as  a 
child  lies  to  excuse  himself,  almost  as  instinctively  as  he 
raises  his  hand  to  protect  his  head.  The  old  saying, 
‘ confess  and  be  hanged,’  carries  much  argument  in  it.  I 
observed  a remark  the  other  day  in  old  Birrel.  He  men- 
tions that  M‘Gregor  of  Glenstrae  and  some  of  his  people 
had  surrendered  themselves  to  one  of  the  Earls  of  Argyle, 
upon  the  express  condition  that  they  should  be  conveyed 
safe  into  England.  The  Maccallan  Mhorof  the  day  kept 
the  word  of  promise,  but  it  was  only  to  the  ear.  He  in- 
deed sent  his  captives  to  Berwick,  where  they  had  an 
airing  on  the  other  side  of  the  Tweed,  but  it  was  under 
the  custody  of  a strong  guard,  by  whom  they  were  brought 
back  to  Edinburgh,  and  delivered  to  the  executioner. 
This,  Birrel  calls  keeping  a Highlandman’s  promise.” 
“Well,”  replied  Mrs.  Baliol,  “ I might  add,  that  many 
of  the  Highland  chiefs  whom  I knew  in  former  days  had 
been  brought  up  in  France,  which  might  improve  their 


THE  CANONGATE. 


89 


politeness,  though  perhaps  it  did  not  amend  their  insincer- 
ity. But  considering,  that,  belonging  to  the  depressed 
and  defeated  faction  in  the  state,  they  were  compelled 
sometimes  to  use  dissimulation,  you  must  set  their  uniform 
fidelity  to  their  friends  against  their  occasional  falsehood 
to  their  enemies,  and  then  you  will  not  judge  poor  John 
Highlandman  too  severely.  They  were  in  a state  of  so- 
ciety where  bright  lights  are  strongly  contrasted  with  deep 
shadows.” 

“ It  is  to  that  point  I would  bring  you,  ma  belle  cousine , 
— and  therefore  they  are  most  proper  subjects  for  com- 
position.” 

“ And  you  want  to  turn  composer,  my  good  friend, 
and  set  my  old  tales  to  some  popular  tune  9 But  there 
have  been  too  many  composers,  if  that  be  the  word,  in 
the  field  before.  The  Highlands  were  indeed  a rich  mine  ; 
but  they  have,  I think,  been  fairly  wrought  out,  as  a good 
tune  is  grinded  into  vulgarity  when  it  descends  to  the 
hurdy-gurdy  and  the  barrel-organ.” 

“ If  it  be  a real  good  tune,”  I replied,  “ it  will  recover 
its  better  qualities  when  it  gets  into  the  hands  of  better 
artists.” 

“ Umph  !”  said  Mrs.  Baliol,  tapping  her  box,  “ we 
are  happy  in  our  own  good  opinion  this  evening,  Mr. 
Croftangry.  And  so  you  think  you  can  restore  the  gloss 
to  the  tartan,  which  it  has  lost  by  being  dragged  through 
so  many  fingers  9 

“ With  your  assistance  to  procure  materials,  my  dear 
lady,  much,  I think,  may  be  done.” 

“ Well — I must  do  my  best,  I suppose  ; though  all  1 
know  about  the  Gael  is  but  of  little  consequence — In- 
deed, I gathered  it  chiefly  from  Donald  MacLeish.” 

“ And  who  might  Donald  MacLeish  be  9”  > 

“ Neither  bard  nor  seannachie,  I assure  you,  nor  monk 
nor  hermit,  the  approved  authorities  for  old  traditions. 
Donald  was  as  good  a postillion  as  ever  drove  a chaise  and 
pair  between  Glencroe  and  Inverary.  I assure  you,  when 
I give  you  my  Highland  anecdotes,  you  will  hear  much  of 
S*  VOL.  i. 


90 


CHRONICLES  OF 


Donald  MacLeish.  He  was  Alice  Lambskin’s  beau  and 
mine  through  a long  Highland  tour.” 

“ But  when  am  I to  possess  these  anecdotes'? — you 
answer  me  as  Harley  did  poor  Prior — 

Let  that  be  done  which  Mat  doth  say. 

* Yea/  quoth  the  Earl,  * but  not  to-day.;  ” 

“ Well,  mon  beau  cousin , if  you  begin  to  remind  me  of 
my  cruelty,  I must  remind  you  it  has  struck  nine  On  the 
Abbey  clock,  and  it  is  time  you  were  going  home  to 
Little  Croftangry.  For  my  promise  to  assist  your  anti- 
quarian researches,  be  assured,  I will  one  day  keep  it 
to  the  utmost  extent.  It  shall  not  be  a Highlandman’s 
promise,  as  your  old  citizen  calls  it.” 

I by  this  time  suspected  the  purpose  of  my  friend’s 
procrastination  ; and  it  saddened  my  heart  to  reflect  that 
I was  not  to  get  the  information  which  I desired,  except- 
ing in  the  shape  of  a legacy.  I found  accordingly,  in  the 
packet  transmitted  to  me  after  the  excellent  lady’s  death, 
several  anecdotes  respecting  the  Highlands,  from  which  I 
have  selected  that  which  follows,  chiefly  on  account  of  its 
possessing  great  power  over  the  feelings  of  my  critical 
housekeeper,  Janet  M‘Evoy,  who  wept  most  bitterly  when 
1 read  it  to  her. 

It  is,  however,  but  a very  simple  tale,  and  may  have  no 
interest  for  persons  beyond  Janet’s  rank  of  life  or  under- 
standing. 


THE  CANONGATE. 


91 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

5TIj t ffijtfifjlauii  SSUtJGto. 

It  wound  as  near  as  near  could  be, 

But  what  it  is  she  cannot  tell  ; 

On  the  other  side  it  seemed  to  be, 

Of  the  huge  broad-breasted  old  oak  tree. 

Coleridge. 

Mrs.Bethune  Baliol’s  memorandum  begins  thus: — 

It  is  five  and  thirty,  or  perhaps  nearer  forty  years  ago, 
since,  to  relieve  the  dejection  of  spirits  occasioned  by  a 
great  family  loss  sustained  two  or  three  months  before,  I 
undertook  what  was  called  the  short  Highland  tour.  This 
had  become  in  some  degree  fashionable  ; but  though  the 
military  roads  were  excellent,  yet  the  accommodation  was 
so  indifferent  that  it  was  reckoned  a little  adventure  to 
accomplish  it.  Besides,  the  Highlands,  though  now  as 
peaceable  as  any  part  of  King  George’s  dominions,  was  a 
sound  which  still  carried  terror,  while  so  many  survived 
who  had  witnessed  the  insurrection  of  1745  ; and  a 
vague  idea  of  fear  was  impressed  on  many,  as  they  look- 
ed from  the  towers  of  Stirling  northward  to  the  huge 
chain  of  mountains,  which  rises  like  a dusky  rampart  to 
conceal  in  its  recesses  a people,  whose  dress,  manners, 
and  language,  differed  still  very  much  from  those  of  their 
Lowland  countrymen.  For  my  part,  I come  of  a race 
not  greatly  subject  to  apprehensionsarising  from  imagina- 
tion only.  I had  some  Highland  relatives,  knew  several 
of  their  families  of  distinction  ; and,  having  only  the 
company  of  my  bower-maiden  Mistress  Alice  Lambskin, 
I went  on  my  journey  fearless,  though  without  an  escort. 

But  then  I had  a guide  and  cicerone,  almost  equal  to 
Greatheart  in  the  Pilgrim’s  Progress,  in  no  less  a person 
than  Donald  MacLeish,  the  postillion  whom  I hired  at 


92 


CHRONICLES  OE 


Stirling,  with  a pair  of  able-bodied  horses,  as  steady  as 
Donald  himself,  to  drag  iny  carriage,  my  duenna,  and 
myself,  wheresoever  it  was  my  pleasure  to  go. 

Donald  MacLeish  was  one  of  a race  of  post-boys, 
whom,  I suppose,  mail-coaches  and  steam-boats  have  put 
out'of  fashion.  They  were  to  be  found  chiefly  at  Perth, 
Stirling,  or  Glasgow,  where  they  and  their  horses  were 
usually  hired  by  travellers,  or  tourists,  to  accomplish 
such  journeys  of  business  or  pleasure  as  they  might 
have  to  perform  in  the  land  of  the  Gael.  This  class  of 
persons  approached  to  the  character  of  what  is  called 
abroad  a conducteur  ; or  might  be  compared  to  the  sail- 
ing-master on  board  a British  ship  of  war,  who  follows  out 
after  his  own  manner  the  course  which  the  captain  com- 
mands him  to  observe.  You  explained  to  your  postillion 
the  length  of  your  tour,  and  the  objects  you  were  desirous 
it  should  embrace  ; and  you  found  him  perfectly  compe- 
tent to  fix  the  places  of  rest  or  refreshment,  with  due  at- 
tention that  those  should  be  chosen  with  reference  to  your 
convenience,  and  to  any  points  of  interest  which  you 
might  desire  to  visit. 

The  qualifications  of  such  a person  were  necessarily 
much  superior  to  those  of  the  “ first  ready,”  who  gallops 
thrice  a-day  over  the  same  ten  miles.  Donald  MacLeish, 
besides  being  quite  alert  at  repairing  all  ordinary  acci- 
dents to  his  horses  and  carriage,  and  in  making  shift  to 
support  them,  where  forage  was  scarce,  with  such  substi- 
tutes as  bannocks  and  cakes,  was  likewise  a man  of  in- 
tellectual resources.  He  had  acquired  a general  know- 
ledge of  the  traditional  stories  of  the  country  which  he 
had  traversed  so  often  ; and,  if  encouraged,  (for  Donald 
was  a man  of  the  most  decorous  reserve,)  he  would  wil- 
lingly point  out  to  you  the  site  of  the  principal  clan-bat- 
tles, and  recount  the  most  remarkable  legends  by  which 
the  road,  and  the  objects  which  occurred  in  travelling  it, 
had  been  distinguished.  There  was  some  originality  in 
the  man’s  habits  of  thinking  and  expressing  himself,  his 
turn  for  legendary  lore  strangely  contrasting  with  a por- 
tion of  the  knowing  shrewdness  belonging  to  his  actual 


THE  CANONGATE. 


93 


occupation,  which  made  his  conversation  amuse  the  way 
well  enough. 

Add  to  this,  Donald  knew  all  his  peculiar  duties  in  the 
country  which  he  traversed  so  frequently.  He  could 
tell,  to  a day,  when  they  would  “ be  killing”  lamb  at 
Tyndrum  or  Glenuilt ; so  that  the  stranger  would  have 
some  chance  of  being  fed  like  a Christian  ; and  knew  to 
a mile  the  last  village  where  it  was  possible  to  procure  a 
wheaten  loaf,  for  the  guidance  of  those  who  were  little 
familiar  with  the  Land  of  Cakes.  He  was  acquainted 
with  the  road  every  mile,  and  could  tell  to  an  inch  which 
side  of  a Highland  bridge  was  passable,  which  decidedly 
dangerous.*  In  short,  Donald  MacLeish  was  not  only 
our  faithful  attendant  and  steady  servant,  but  our  humble 
and  obliging  friend  ; and  though  I have  known  the  half- 
classical  cicerone  of  Italy,  the  talkative  French  valet-de- 
place,  and  even  the  muleteer  of  Spain,  who  piques  himself 
on  being  a maize-eater,  and  whose  honour  is  not  to  be 
questioned  without  danger,  I do  not  think  I have  ever  had 
so  sensible  and  intelligent  a guide. 

Our  motions  were  of  course  under  Donald’s  direction  ; 
and  it  frequently  happened,  when  the  weather  was  serene, 
that  we  preferred  halting  to  rest  his  horses  even  where 
there  was  no  established  stage,  and  taking  our  refresh- 
ment under  a crag,  from  which  leaped  a waterfall,  or  be- 
side the  verge  of  a fountain,  enamelled  with  verdant  turf 
and  wild  flowers.  Donald  had  an  eye  for  such  spots,  and 
though  he  had,  I dare  say,  never  read  Gil  Bias  or  Don 
Quixote,  yet  he  chose  such  halting-places  as  Le  Sage  or 
Cervantes  would  have  described. - Very  often,  as  he 
observed  the  pleasure  I took  in  conversing  with  the  coun- 
try people,  he  would  manage  to  fix  our  place  of  rest  near 
a cottage  where  there  was  some  old  Gael,  whose  broad- 
sword had  blazed  at  Falkirk  or  Preston,  and  who  seemed 
the  frail  yet  faithful  record  of  times  which  had  passed 


* This  is,  or  was  at  least,  a necessary  accomplishment.  In  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  districts  of  the  Highlands  was, not  many  years  since,  abridge  bearing 
this  startling  caution.  “ Keep  to  the  right  side,  the  left  being  dangerous.” 


94 


CHRONICLES  OF 


away.  Or  he  would  contrive  to  quarter  us,  as  far  as  a 
cup  of  tea  went,  upon  the  hospitality  of  some  parish  min- 
ister of  worth  and  intelligence,  or  some  country  family  of 
the  better  class,  who  mingled  with  the  wild  simplicity  of 
their  original  manners,  and  their  ready  and  hospitable 
welcome,  a sort  of  courtesy  belonging  to  a people,  the 
lowest  of  whom  are  accustomed  to  consider  themselves 
as  being,  according  to  the  Spanish  phrase,  “ as  good  gen- 
tlemen as  the  king,  only  not  quite  so  rich.” 

To  all  such  persons  Donald  MacLeish  was  well  known, 
and  his  introduction  passed  as  current  as  if  we  had  brought 
letters  from  some  high  chief  of  the  country. 

Sometimes  it  happened  that  the  Highland  hospitality, 
which  welcomed  us  with  all  variety  of  mountain  fare, 
preparations  of  milk  and  eggs,  and  girdle-cakes  of  various 
kinds,  as  well  as  more  substantial  dainties,  according  to 
the  inhabitant’s  means  of  regaling  the  passenger,  de- 
scended rather  too  exuberantly  on  Donald  MacLeish  in 
the  shape  of  mountain  dew.  Poor  Donald  ! he  was  on 
such  occasions  like  Gideon’s  fleece,  moist  with  the  noble 
element,  which,  of  course,  fell  not  on  us.  But  it  was  his 
only  fault,  and  when  pressed  to  drink  doch-an-dorroch 
to  my  ladyship’s  good  health,  it  would  have  been  ill  taken 
to  have  refused  the  pledge,  nor  was  he  willing  to  do  such 
discourtesy.  It  was,  I repeat,  his  only  fault,  nor  had  we 
any  great  right  to  complain  ; for  if  it  rendered  him  a little 
more  talkative,  it  augmented  his  ordinary  share  of  punc- 
tilious civility,  and  he  only  drove  slower,  and  talked  long- 
er and  more  pompously  than  tvhen  he  had  not  come  by 
a drop  of  usquebaugh.  It  was,  we  remarked/ only  on 
such  occasions  that  Donald  talked  with  an  air  of  import- 
ance of  the  family  of  MacLeish  ; and  we  had  no  title  to 
be  scrupulous  in  censuring  a foible,  the  consequences  of 
which  were  confined  within  such  innocent  limits. 

We  became  so  much  accustomed  to  Donald’s  mode  of 
managing  us,  that  we  observed  with  some  interest  the  art 
which  he  used  to  produce  a little  agreeable  surprise,  by 
concealing  from  us  the  spot  w7here  he  proposed  our  halt 
to  be  made,  when  it  was  of  an  unusual  and  interesting 


TIIE  CANONGATE. 


95 


character.  This  was  so  much  his  wont,  that  when  he 
made  apologies  at  setting  off,  for  being  obliged  to  stop  in 
some  strange  solitary  place,  till  the  horses  should  eat  the 
corn  which  he  brought  on  with  them  for  that  purpose, 
our  imagination  used  to  be  on  the  stretch  to  guess  what 
romantic  retreat  he  had  secretly  fixed  upon  for  our  noon- 
tide baiting-place. 

We  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  morning  at  the 
delightful  village  of  Dalmally,  and  had  gone  upon  the 
lake  under  the  guidance  of  the  excellent  clergyman 
who  was  then  incumbent  at  Glenorquhy,  and  had  heard 
an  hundred  legends  of  the  stern  chiefs  of  Lochawe,  Dun- 
can with  the  thrum  bonnet,  and  the  other  lords  of  the  now 
mouldering  towers  of  Kilchurn.  Thus  it  was  later  than 
usual  when  we  set  out  on  our  journey,  after  a hint  or  two 
from  Donald  concerning  the  length  of  the  way  to  the 
next  stage,  as  there  was  no  good  halting-place  between 
Dalmally  and  Oban. 

Having  bid  adieu  to  our  venerable  and  kind  cicerone, 
we  proceeded  on  our  tour,  winding  round  the  tremen- 
dous mountain  called  Cruachan  Ben,  which  rushes  down  in 
all  its  majesty  of  rocks  and  wilderness  on  the  lake,  leaving 
only  a pass,  in  which,  notwithstanding  its  extreme  strength, 
the  warlike  clan  of  MacDougal  of  Lorn  were  almost  de- 
stroyed by  the  sagacious  Robert  Bruce.  That  King,  the 
Wellington  of  his  day,  had  accomplished,  by  a forced 
march,  the  unexpected  manoeuvre  of  forcing  a body  of 
troops  round  the  other  side  of  the  mountain,  and  thus 
placed  them  in  the  flank  and  in  the  rear  of  the  men  of 
Lorn,  whom  at  the  same  time  he  attacked  in  front.  The 
great  number  of  cairns  yet  visible,  as  you  descend  the 
pass  on  the  westward  side,  shows  the  extent  of  the  ven- 
geance which  Bruce  exhausted  on  his  inveterate  and  per- 
sonal enemies.  I am,  you  know,  the  sister  of  soldiers, 
and  it  has  since  struck  me  forcibly  that  the  manoeuvre 
which  Donald  described,  resembled  those  of  Wellington 
or  of  Bonaparte.  He  was  a great  man  Robert  Bruce, 
even  a Baliol  must  admit  that ; although  it  begins  now  to 
be  allowed  that  his  title  to  the  crown  was  scarce  so  good 


96 


CHRONICLE S OF 


as  that  of  the  unfortunate  family  with  whom  he  contend- 
ed— But  let  that  pass. — The  slaughter  had  been  the 
greater,  as  the  deep  and  rapid  river  Awe  is  disgorged 
from  the  lake,  just  in  the  rear  of  the  fugitives,  and  encir- 
cles the  base  of  the  tremendous  mountain  ; so  that  the 
retreat  of  the  unfortunate  fugitives  was  intercepted  on  all 
sides  by  the  inaccessible  character  of  the  country,  which 
had  seemed  to  promise  them  defence  and  protection. 

Musing,  like  the  Irish  lady  in  the  song,  “ upon  things 
which  are  long  enough  a-gone,”  we  felt  no  impatience  at 
the  slow,  and  almost  creeping  pace,  with  which  our  con- 
ductor proceeded  along  General  Wade’s  military  road, 
which  never  or  rarely  condescends  to  turn  aside  from  the 
steepest  ascent,  but  proceeds  right  up  and  down  hill,  with 
the  indifference  to  height  and  hollow,  steep  or  level,  indi- 
cated by  the  old  Roman  engineers.  Still,  however,  the 
substantial  excellence  of  these  great  works — for  such  are 
the  military  highways  in  the  Highlands — deserved  the 
compliment  of  the  poet,  who,  whether  he  came  from  our 
sister  kingdom,  and  spoke  in  his  own  dialect,  or  whether 
he  supposed  those  whom  he  addressed  might  have  some 
national  pretension  to  the  second  sight,  produced  the  cel- 
ebrated couplet — 

Had  you  but  seen  these  roads  before  they  were  made, 

You  would  hold  up  your  hands,  and  bless  General  Wade. 

Nothing  indeed  can  be  more  wonderful  than  to  see  these 
wildernesses  penetrated  and  pervious  in  every  quarter  by 
broad  accesses  of  the  best  possible  construction,  and  so 
superior  to  what  the  country  could  have  demanded  for 
many  centuries  for  any  pacific  purpose  of  commercial 
intercourse.  Thus  the  traces  of  war  are  sometimes  hap- 
pily accommodated  to  the  purposes  of  peace.  The  vic- 
tories of  Bonaparte  have  been  without  results ; but  his 
road  over  the  Simplon  will  long  be  the  communication 
betwixt  peaceful  countries,  who  will  apply  to  the  ends  of 
commerce  and  friendly  intercourse  that  gigantic  work, 
which  was  formed  for  the  ambitious  purpose  of  warlike 
invasion. 


THE  CANONGATE. 


97 


While  we  were  thus  stealing  along,  we  gradually  turn- 
ed round  the  shoulder  of  Ben  Cruachan,  and  descending 
the  course  of  the  foaming  and  rapid  Awe,  left  behind  us 
the  expanse  of  the  majestic  lake  which  gives  birth  to  that 
impetuous  river.  The  rocks  and  precipices  which  stoop- 
ed down  perpendicularly  on  our  path  on  the  right  hand, 
exhibited  a few  remains  of  the  wood  which  once  clothed 
them,  but  which  had,  in  latter  times,  been  felled  to  sup- 
ply, Donald  MacLeish  informed  us,  the  iron-founderies  at 
Bunawe.  This  made  us  fix  our  eyes  with  interest  on  one 
large  oak,  which  grew  on  the  left  hand  towards  the  river. 
It  seemed  a tree  of  extraordinary  magnitude  and  pictur- 
esque beauty,  and  stood  just  where  there  appeared  to  be 
a few  roods  of  open  ground  lying  among  huge  stones, 
which  had  rolled  down  from  the  mountain.  To  add  to 
the  romance  of  the  situation,  the  spot  of  clear  ground 
extended  round  the  foot  of  a proud-browed  rock,  from 
the  summit  of  which  leaped  a mountain  stream  in  a fall 
of  sixty  feet,  in  which  it  was  dissolved  into  foam  and  dew. 
At  the  bottom  of  the  fall  the  rivulet  with  difficulty  col- 
lected, like  a routed  general,  its  dispersed  forces,  and,  as 
if  tamed  by  its  descent,  found  a noiseless  passage  through 
the  heath  to  join  the  Awe.  # 

I was  much  struck  with  the  tree  and  waterfall,  and 
wished  myself  nearer  them  ; not  that  I thought  of  sketch- 
book or  portfolio, — for,  in  my  younger  days,  Misses  were 
not  accustomed  to  black-lead  pencils,  unless  they  could 
use  them  to  some  good  purpose, — but  merely  to  indulge 
myself  with  a closer  view.  Donald  immediately  opened 
the  chaise  door,  but  observed  it  was  rough  walking  down 
the  brae,  and  that  I would  see  the  tree  better  by  keeping 
the  road  for  a hundred  yards  farther,  when  it  passed  closer 
to  the  spot,  for  which  he  seemed,  however,  to  have  no 
predilection.  “ He  knew,”  he  said,  “ a far  bigger  tree 
than  that  nearer  Bunawe,  and  it  was  a place  where  there 
was  flat  ground  for  the  carriage  to  stand,  which  it  could 
jimply  do  on  these  braes  ; — but  just  as  my  leddyship 
liked.” 

9 VOL.  I. 


98 


CHRONICLES  OF 


My  ladyship  did  choose  rather  to  look  at  the  fine  tree 
before  me,  than  to  pass  it  by  \n  hopes  of  a finer  ; so  we 
walked  beside  the  carriage  till  we  should  come  to  a point, 
from  which,  Donald  assured  us,  we  might,  without  scram- 
bling, go  as  near  the  tree  as  we  chose,  “ though  he  wadna 
advise  us  to  go  nearer  than  the  high  road.” 

There  was  something  grave  and  mysterious  in  Donald’s 
sun-browned  countenance  when  he  gave  us  this  intima- 
tion, and » his  manner  was  so  different  from  his  usual 
frankness,  that  my  female  curiosity  was  set  in  motion. 
We  walked  on  the  whilst,  and  I found  the  tree,  of  which 
we  had  now  lost  sight  by  the  intervention  of  some  rising 
ground,  was  really  more  distant  than  1 had  at  first  suppos- 
ed. “I  could  have  sworn  now,”  said  I to  my  cicerone, 
££  that  yon  tree  and  waterfall  was  the  very  place  where 
you  intended  to  make  a stop  to-day.” 

“ The  Lord  forbid  !”  said  Donald,  hastily. 

“ And  for  what,  Donald  ? why  should  you  be  willing 
to  pass  so  pleasant  a spot?” 

“ It’s  ower  near  Dalmally,  my  leddy,  to  corn  the  beasts 
— it  wTould  bring  their  dinner  ower  near  their  breakfast, 
poor  things  : — an’,  besides,  the  place  is  not  canny.” 

“ Oh  ! then  the  mystery  is  out.  There  is  a bogle  or 
a brownie,  a witch  or  a gyre-carlin,  a bodach  or  a fairy, 
in  the  case  ?” 

“ The  ne’er  a bit,  my  leddy — ye  are  clean  aff  the 
road,  as  I may  say.  But  if  your  leddyship  will  just  hae 
patience,  and  wait  till  we  are  by  the  place  and  out  of  the 
glen,  I’ll  tell  ye  all  about  it.  There  is  no  much  luck  in 
speaking  of  such  things  in  the  place  they  chanced  in.” 

I was  obliged  to  suspend  my  curiosity,  observing,  that 
if  I persisted  in  twisting  the  discourse  one  way  while 
Donald  was  twining  it  another,  I should  make  his  objec- 
tion, like  a hempen  cord,  just  so  much  the  tougher.  At 
length  the  promised  turn  of  the  road  brought  us  within 
fifty  paces  of  the  tree  which  I desired  to  admire,  and  I 
now  saw,  to  my  surprise,  that  there  was  a human  habita- 
tion among  the  cliffs  which  surrounded  it.  It  was  a hut 
of  the  least  dimensions,  and  most  miserable  description; 


THE  CANON GATE. 


99 


that  I ever  saw  even  in  the  Highlands.  The  walls  of  sod, 
or  divot,  as  the  Scotch  call  it,  were  not  four  feet  high — 
the  roof  was  of  turf,  repaired  with  reeds  and  sedges — 
the  chimney,  was  composed  of  clay,  bound  round  by  straw 
ropes — and  the  whole  walls,  roof  and  chimney,  were  alike 
covered  with  the  vegetation  of  house-leek,  rye-grass,  and 
moss,  common  to  decayed  cottages  lormed  of  such  mate- 
rials. There  was  not  the  slightest  vestige  of  a kale-yard, 
the  usual  accompaniment  of  the  very  worst  huts ; and  of 
living  things  we  saw  nothing,  save  a kid  which  was  brows- 
ing on  the  roof  of  the  hut,  and  a goat,  its  mother,  at  some 
distance,  feeding  betwixt  the  oak  and  the  river  Awe. 

“ What  man,”  I could  not  help  exclaiming,  “ can  have 
committed  sin  deep  enough  to  deserve  such  a miserable 
dwelling  !” 

“ Sin  enough,”  said  Donald  MacLeish,  with  a half- 
suppressed  groan  ; “ and  God  he  knoweth,  misery  enough 
too  ; — and  it  is  no  man’s  dwelling  neither,  but  a wo- 
man’s.” 

“ A woman’s  !”  I repeated,  u and  in  so  lonely  a place 
— What  sort  of  a woman  can  she  be  *?” 

“ Come  this  way,  my  leddy,  and  you  may  judge  that 
for  yourself,”  said  Donald.  And  by  advancing  a few 
steps,  and  making  a sharp  turn  to  the  left,  we  gained  a 
sight  of  the  side  of  the  great  broad-breasted  oak,  in  the 
direction  opposed  to  that  in  which  we  had  hitherto  seen  it. 

“ If  she  keeps  her  old  wont,  she  will  be  there  at  this 
hour  of  the  day,”  said  Donald  ; but  immediately  became 
silent,  and  pointed  with  his  finger,  as  one  afraid  of  being 
overheard.  I looked,  and  beheld,  not  without  some 
sense  of  awe,  a female  form  seated  by  the  stem  of  the 
oak,  with  her  head  drooping,  her  hands  clasped,  and  a 
dark-coloured  mantle  drawn  over  her  head,  exactly  as 
Judah  is  represented  in  the  Syrian  medals  as  seated 
under  her  palm-tree.  I was  infected  with  the  fear  and 
reverence  which  my  guide  seemed  to  entertain  towards 
this  solitary  being,  nor  did  I think  of  advancing  towards 
her  to  obtain  a nearer  view  until  I had  cast  an  inquiring 


100 


CHRONICLES  OF 


look  on  Donald  ; to  which  he  replied  in  a half  whisper — 
“ She  has  been  a fearfu’  bad  woman,  my  leddy.” 

“ Mad  woman,  said  you,”  replied  I,  hearing  him  im- 
perfectly ; “ then  she  is  perhaps  dangerous T5 

“ No — she  is  not  mad,”  replied  Donald  ; “ for  then 
it  may  be  she  would  be  happier  than  she  is  ; though  when 
she  thinks  on  what  she  has  done,  and  caused  to  be  done, 
rather  than  yield  up  a hair-breadth  of  her  ain  wicked 
will,  it  is  not  likely  she  can  be  very  well  settled.  But 
she  neither  is  mad  nor  mischievous  ; and  yet,  my  leddy, 
I think  you  had  best  not  go  nearer  to  her.”  And  then, 
in  a few  hurried  words,  he  made  me  acquainted  with  the 
story  which  I am  now  to  tell  more  in  detail.  I heard  the 
narrative  with  a mixture  of  horror  and  sympathy,  which 
at  once  impelled  me  to  approach  the  sufferer,  and  speak 
to  her  the  words  of  comfort,  or  rather  of  pity,  and  at  the 
same  time  made  me  afraid  to  do  so. 

This  indeed  was  the  feeling  with  which  she  was  regard- 
ed by  the  Highlanders  in  the  neighbourhood,  who  looked 
upon  Elspat  MacTavisb,  or  the  Woman  of  the  Tree,  as 
they  called  her,  as  the  Greeks  considered  those  who  were 
pursued  by  the  Furies,  and  endured  the  mental  torment 
consequent  on  great  criminal  actions.  They  regarded 
such  unhappy  beings  as  Orestes  and  CEdipus,  as  being 
less  the  voluntary  perpetrators  of  their  crimes,  than  as  the 
passive  instruments  by  which  the  terrible  decrees  of  Des- 
tiny had  been  accomplished  ; and  the  fear  with  which 
they  beheld  them  was  not  unmingled  with  veneration. 

I also  learned  farther  from  Donald  MacLeish,  that  there 
was  some  apprehension  of  ill  luck  attending  those  who  had 
the  boldness  to  approach  too  near,  or  disturb  the  awful 
solitude  of  a being  so  unutterably  miserable  ; that  it  was 
supposed  that  whosoever  approached  her  must  experience 
in  some  respect  her  wretchedness. 

It  was  therefore  with  some  reluctance  that  Donald 
saw  me  prepare  to  obtain  a nearer  view  of  the  sufferer, 
and  that  he  himself  followed  to  assist  me  in  the  descent 
down  a very  rough  path.  I believe  his  regard  for  me 
conquered  some  ominous  feelings  in  his  own  breast,  which 


THE  CANONGATE. 


101 


connected  his  duty  on  this  occasion  with  the  presaging 
fear  of  lame  horses,  lost  linch-pins,  overturns,  and  other 
perilous  chances  of  the  postillion’s  life. 

I am  not  sure  if  my  own  courage  would  have  carried 
me  so  close  to  Elspat,  had  not  he  followed.  There  was 
in  her  countenance  the  stern  abstraction  of  hopeless  and 
overpowering  sorrow,  mixed  with  the  contending  feelings 
of  remorse,  and  of  the  pride  which  struggled  to  conceal 
it.  She  guessed,  perhaps,  that  it  was  curiosity,  arising 
out  of  her  uncommon  story,  which  induced  me  to  intrude 
on  her  solitude — and  she  could  not  be  pleased  that  a fate 
like  hers  had  been  the  theme  of  a traveller’s  amusement. 
Yet  the  look  with  which  she  regarded  me  was  one  of 
scorn  instead  of  embarrassment.  The  opinion  of  the 
world  and  all  its  children  could  not  add  or  take  an  iota 
from  her  load  of  misery;  and,  save  from  the  half  smile 
that  seemed  to  intimate  the  contempt  of  a being  wrapt 
by  the  very  intensity  of  her  affliction  above  the  sphere 
of  ordinary  humanities,  she  seemed  as  indifferent  to 
my  gaze,  as  if  she  had  been  a dead  corpse  or  a marble 
statue. 

Elspat  was  above  the  middle  stature ; her  hair,  now 
grizzled,  was  still  profuse  ; and  it  had  been  of  the  most 
decided  black.  So  were  her  eyes,  in  which,  contradict- 
ing the  stern  and  rigid  features  of  her  countenance,  there 
shone  the  wild  and  troubled  light  that  indicates  an  unset- 
tled mind.  Her  hair  was  wrapt  round  a silver  bodkin 
with  some  attention  to  neatness,  and  her  dark  mantle  was 
disposed  around  her  with  a degree  of  taste,  though  the 
materials  were  of  the  most  ordinary  sort. 

After  gazing  on  this  victim  of  guilt  and  calamity  till 
I wras  ashamed  to  remain  silent,  though  uncertain  how  I 
ought  to  address  her,  I began  to  express  my  surprise  at 
her  choosing  such  a desert  and  deplorable  dwelling. 
She  cut  short  these  expressions  of  sympathy,  by  answer- 
ing in  a stern  voice,  without  the  least  change  of  counte- 
nance or  posture — u Daughter  of  the  stranger,  he  has 
told  you  my  story.”  I was  silenced  at  once,  and  felt 
9*  VOL.  i. 


102 


CHRONICLES  6f 


how  little  all  earthly  accommodation  must  seem  to  the 
mind  which  had  such  subjects  as  hers  for  rumination. 
Without  again  attempting  to  open  the  conversation,  I took 
a piece  of  gold  from  my  purse,  (for  Donald  had  intimated 
she  lived  on  alms,)  expecting  she  would  at  least  stretch 
her  hand  to  receive  it.  But  she  neither  accepted  nor  re- 
jected the  gift — she  did  not  even  seem  to  notice  it,  though 
twenty  times  as  valuable,  probably,  as  was  usually  offer- 
ed. I was  obliged  to  place  it  on  her  knee,  saying  invol- 
untarily, as  I did  so,  “ May  God  pardon  you,  and  relieve 
you  !”  I shall  never  forget  the  look  which  she  cast  up  to 
Heaven,  nor  the  tone  in  which  she  exclaimed,  in  the  very 
words  of  my  old  friend,  John  Home — 

11  My  beautiful — my  brave  V 

It  was  the  language  of  nature,  and  arose  from  the  heart 
of  the  deprived  mother,  as  it  did  from  that  gifted  imagin- 
ative poet,  while  furnishing  with  appropriate  expressions 
the  ideal  grief  of  Lady  Randolph. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

O,  I’m  come  to  the  Low  Country, 

Och,  och,  ohonochie, 

Without  a penny  in  my  pouch 
To  buy  a meal  for  me. 

I was  the  proudest  of  my  clan, 

Long,  long  may  1 repine; 

And  Donald  was  the  bravest  man, 

And  Donald  he  was  mine. 

Old  Song. 

Elspat  had  enjoyed  happy  days,  though  her  age  had 
sunk  into  hopeless  and  inconsolable  sorrow  and  distress. 
She  was  once  the  beautiful  and  happy  wife  of  Hamish 
MacTavish,  for  whom  his  strength  and  feats  of  prowess 
had  gained  him  the  title  of  MacTavish  Mhor.  His  life 


THE  CANONGATE. 


103 


was  turbulent  and  dangerous,  his  habits  being  of  the  old 
Highland  stamp,  which  esteemed  it  shame  to  want  any- 
thing that  could  be  had  for  the  taking.  Those  in  the 
Lowland  line  who  lay  near  him,  and  desired  to  enjoy 
their  lives  and  property  in  quiet,  were  contented  to  pay 
him  a small  composition,  in  name  of  protection-money, 
and  comforted  themselves  with  the  old  proverb,  that  it 
was  better  to  “ fleech  the  deil  than  fight  him.”  Others, 
who  accounted  such  composition  dishonourable,  were  of- 
ten surprised  by  MacTavish  Mhor,  and  his  associates 
and  followers,  who  usually  inflicted  an  adequate  penalty, 
either  in  person  or  property,  or  both.  The  creagh  is 
yet  remembered,  in  which  he  swept  one  hundred  and  fifty 
cows  from  Monteith  in  one  drove ; and  how  he  placed 
the  laird  of  Ballybught  naked  in  a slough,  for  having 
threatened  to  send  for  a party  of  the  Highland  Watch 
to  protect  his  property. 

Whatever  were  occasionally  the  triumphs  of  this  daring 
cateran,  they  were  often  exchanged  for  reverses  ; and  his 
narrow  escapes,  rapid  flights,  and  ingenious  stratagems 
with  which  he  extricated  himself  from  imminent  danger, 
were  no  less  remembered  and  admired  than  the  exploits 
in  which  he  had  been  successful.  In  weal  or  wo,  through 
every  species  of  fatigue,  difficulty,  and  danger,  Elspat 
was  his  faithful  companion.  She  enjoyed  with  him  the 
fits  of  occasional  prosperity  ; and  when  adversity  pressed 
them  hard,  her  strength  of  mind,  readiness  of  wit,  and 
courageous  endurance  of  danger  and  toil,  were  said  often 
to  have  stimulated  the  exertions  of  her  husband. 

Their  morality  was  of  the  old  Highland  cast,  faithful 
friends  and  fierce  enemies  : the  Lowland  herds  and  har- 
vests they  accounted  their  own,  whenever  they  had  the 
means  of  driving  off  the  one,  or  of  seizing  upon  the  other  ; 
nor  did  the  least  scruple  on  the  right  of  property  interfere 
on  such  occasions.  Hamish  Mhor  argued  like  the  old 
Cretan  warrior : 

My  sword,  my  spear,  my  shaggy  shield, 

They  make  me  lord  of  all  below  ; 


104 


CHRONICLES  OF 


For  he  that  fears  the  lance  to  wield. 

Before  my  shaggy  shield  must  bow, — 

His  lands,  his  living,  must  resign, 

And  all  that  cowards  have  is  mine. 

But  those  days  of  perilous,  though  frequently  success- 
ful depredation,  began  to  be  abridged  after  the  failure  of 
the  expedition  of  Prince  Charles  Edward.  MacTavish 
Mhor  had  not  sat  still  on  that  occasion,  and  he  was  out- 
lawed, both  as  a traitor  to  the  state,  and  as  a robber  and 
cateran.  Garrisons  were  now  settled  in  many  places 
where  a red  coat  had  never  before  been  seen,  and  the 
Saxon  war-drum  resounded  among  the  most  hidden  re- 
cesses of  the  Highland  mountains.  The  fate  of  MacTavish 
became  every  day  more  inevitable  ; and  it  was  the  more 
difficult  for  him  to  make  his  exertions  for  defence  or  es- 
cape, that  Elspat,  amid  his  evil  days,  had  increased  his 
family  with  an  infant  child,  which  was  a considerable  en- 
cumbrance upon  the  necessary  rapidity  of  their  motions. 

At  length  the  fatal  day  arrived.  In  a strong  pass  on 
the  skirts  of  Ben  Cruachan,  the  celebrated  MacTavish 
Mhor  was  surprised  by  a detachment  of  the  Sidier  Roy. 
His  wife  assisted  him  heroically,  charging  his  piece  from 
time  to  time  ; and  as  they  were  in  possession  of  a post 
that  was  nearly  unassailable,  lie  might  have  perhaps  es- 
caped if  his  ammunition  had  lasted.  But  at  length  his  balls 
were  expended,  although  it  was  not  until  he  had  fired  off 
most  of  the  silver  buttons  from  his  waistcoat,  that  the 
soldiers,  no  longer  deterred  by  fear  of  the  unerring  marks- 
man, who  had  slain  three,  and  wounded  more  of  their 
number,  approached  his  stronghold,  and,  unable  to  take 
him  alive,  slew  him,  after  a most  desperate  resistance. 

All  this  Elspat  witnessed  and  survived,  for  she  had,  in 
the  child  which  relied  on  her  for  support,  a motive  for 
strength  and  exertion.  In  what  manner  she  maintained 
herself  it  is  not  easy  to  say.  Her  only  ostensible  means 
of  support  were,  a flock  of  three  or  four  goats,  which  she 
fed  wherever  she  pleased  on  the  mountain  pastures,  no 
one  challenging  the  intrusion.  In  the  general  distress  of 
the  country,  her  ancient  acquaintances  had  little  to  be- 


THE  CANONGATE. 


105 


stow ; but  what  they  could  part  with  from  their  own 
necessities,  they  willingly  devoted  to  the  relief  of  others. 
From  Lowlanders  she  sometimes  demanded  tribute,  rath- 
er than  requested  alms.  She  had  not  forgotten  she  was 
the  widow  of  MacTavish  Mhor,  or  that  the  child  who 
trotted  by  her  knee  might,  such  were  her  imaginations, 
emulate  one  day  the  fame  of  his  father,  and  command  the 
same  influence  which  he  had  once  exerted  without  con- 
trol. She  associated  so  little  with  others,  went  so  seldom 
and  so  unwillingly  from  the  wildest  recesses  of  the  moun- 
tains, where  she  usually  dwelt  with  her  goats,  that  she 
was  quite  unconscious  of  the  great  change  which  had 
taken  place  in  the  country  around  her,  the  substitution  of 
civil  order  for  military  violence,  and  the  strength  gained 
by  the  law  and  its  adherents  over  those  who  were  called 
in  Gaelic  song,  “ the  stormy  sons  of  the  sword.”  Her 
own  diminished  consequence  and  straitened  circumstances 
she  indeed  felt,  but  for  this  the  death  of  MacTavish  Mhor 
was,  in  her  apprehension,  a sufficing  reason  ; and  she 
doubted  not  that  she  should  rise  to  her  former  state  of 
importance,  when  Hamish  Bean  (or  Fair-haired  James) 
should  be  able  to  wield  the  arms  of  his  father.  If,  then, 
Elspat  was  repelled  rudely  when  she  demanded  anything 
necessary  for  her  wants,  or  the  accommodation  of  her 
little  flock,  by  a churlish  farmer,  her  threats  of  vengeance, 
obscurely  expressed,  yet  terrible  in  their  tenor,  used  fre- 
quently to  extort,  through  fear  of  her  maledictions,  the 
relief  which  was  denied  to  her  necessities  ; and  the  trem- 
bling goodwife,  who  gave  meal  or  money  to  the  widow  of 
MacTavish  Mhor,  wished  in  her  heart  that  the  stern  old 
carlin  had  been  burnt  on  the  day  her  husband  had  his 
due. 

Years  thus  ran  on,  and  Hamish  Bean  grew  up,  not  in- 
deed to  be  of  his  father’s  size  or  strength,  but  to  become 
an  active,  high-spirited,  fair-haired  youth,  with  a ruddy 
cheek,  an  eye  like  an  eagle,  and  all  the  agility,  if  not  all 
the  strength,  of  his  formidable  father,  upon  whose  history 
and  achievements  his  mother  dwelt,  in  order  to  form  her 
son’s  mind  to  a sftnilar  course  of  adventures.  But  the 


106 


CHRONICLES  OF 


young  see  the  present  state  of  this  changeful  world  more 
keenly  than  the  old.  Much  attached  to  his  mother,  and 
disposed  to  do  all  in  his  power  for  his  support,  Hamish 
yet  perceived,  when  he  mixed  with  the  world,  that  the 
trade  of  the  cateran  was  now  alike  dangerous  and  discred- 
itable, and  that  if  he  were  to  emulate  his  father’s  prowess, 
it  must  be  in  some  other  line  of  warfare,  more  consonant 
to  the  opinions  of  the  present  day. 

As  the  faculties  of  mind  and  body  began  to  expand, 
he  became  more  sensible  of  the  precarious  nature  of  his 
situation,  of  the  erroneous  views  of  his  mother,  and  her 
ignorance  respecting  the  changes  of  the  society  with  which 
she  mingled  so  little.  In  visiting  friends  and  neighbours, 
he  became  aware  of  the  extremely  reduced  scale  to  which 
his  parent  was  limited,  and  learned  that  she  possessed 
little  or  nothing  more  than  the  extreme  necessaries  of  life, 
and  that  these  were  sometimes  on  the  point  of  failing. 
At  times  his  success  in  fishing  and  the  chase  was  able  to 
add  something  to  her  subsistence  ; but  he  saw  no  regular 
means  of  contributing  to  her  support,  unless  by  stooping 
to  servile  labour,  which,  if  he  himself  could  have  endured 
it,  would,  he  knew,  have  been  like  a death’s-vvound  to  the 
pride  of  his  mother. 

Elspat,  meanwhile,  saw  with  surprise,  that  Hamish 
Bean,  although  now  tall  and  fit  for  the  field,  showed  no 
disposition  to  enter  on  his  father’s  scene  of  action.  There 
was  something  of  the  mother  at  her  heart,  which  prevent- 
ed her  from  urging  him  in  plain  terms  to  take  the  field 
as  a cateran,  for  the  fear  occurred  of  the  perils  into  which 
the  trade  must  conduct  him  ; and  when  she  would  have 
spoken  to  him  on  the  subject,  it  seemed  to  her  heated 
imagination  as  if  the  ghost  of  her  husband  arose  between 
them  in  his  bloody  tartans,  and  laying  his  finger  on  his 
lips,  appeared  to  prohibit  the  topic.  Yet  she  wondered 
at  what  seemed  his  want  of  spirit,  sighed  as  she  saw  him 
from  day  to  day  lounging  about  in  the  long-skirted  Low- 
land coat,  which  the  legislature  had  imposed  upon  the 
Gael  instead  of  their  own  romantic  garb,  and  thought  how 
much  nearer  he  would  have  resembled  her  husband,  had 


THE  CANONGATE. 


107 


he  been  clad  in  the  belted  plaid  and  short  hose,  with  his 
polished  arms  gleaming  at  his  side. 

Besides  these  subjects  for  anxiety,  Elspat  had  others 
arising  lrom  the  engrossing  impetuosity  of  her  temper. 
Her  love  of  MacTavish  Mhor  had  been  qualified  by  re- 
spect and  sometimes  even  by  fear  ; for  the  cateran  was 
not  the  species  of  man  who  submits  to  female  government ; 
but  over  his  son  she  had  exerted,  at  first  during  childhood, 
and  afterwards  in  early  youth,  an  imperious  authority, 
which  gave  her  maternal  love  aj^iaracter  of  jealousy. 
She  could  not  bear,  when  Hamish,  with  advancing  life, 
made  repeated  steps  towards  independence,  absented  him- 
self from  her  cottage  at  such  season,  and  for  such  length  of 
time  as  he  chose,  and  seemed  to  consider,  although  main- 
taining towards  her  every  possible  degree  of  respect  and 
kindness,  that  the  control  and  responsibility  of  his  actions 
rested  on  himself  alone.  This  would  have  been  of  little 
consequence,  could  she  have  concealed  her  feelings  within 
her  own  bosom  ; but  the  ardour  and  impatience  of  her 
passions  made  her  frequently  show  her  son  that  she  con- 
ceived herself  neglected  and  ill  used.  When  he  was 
absent  for  any  length  of  time  from  her  cottage,  without 
giving  intimation  of  his  purpose,  her  resentment  on  his 
return  used  to  be  so  unreasonable,  that  it  naturally  sug- 
gested to  a young  man  fond  of  independence,  and  desir- 
ous to  amend  his  situation  in  the  world,  to  leave  her,  even 
for  the  very  purpose  of  enabling  him  to  provide  for  the 
parent  whose  egotistical  demands  on  his  filial  attention, 
tended  to  confine  him  to  a desert,  in  which  both  were 
starving  in  hopeless  and  helpless  indigence. 

Upon  one  occasion,  the  son  having  been  guilty  of  some 
independent  excursion,  by  which  the  mother  felt  herself 
affronted  and  disobliged,  she  had  been  more  than  usually 
violent  on  his  return,  and  awakened  in  Hamish  a sense  of 
displeasure, > which  clouded  his  brow  and  cheek.  At 
length,  as  she  persevered  in  her  unreasonable  resentment, 
his  patience  became  exhausted,  and  taking  his  gun  from 
the  chimney  corner,  and  muttering  to  himself  the  reply 
which  his  respect  for  his  mother  prevented  him  from  speak- 


108 


CHRONICLES  OF 


ing  aloud,  he  was  about  to  leave  the  hut  which  he  had 
but  barely  entered. 

“ Hamish,”  said  his  mother,  “ are  you  again  about  to 
leave  me  ?”  But  Hamish  only  replied  by  looking  at, 
and  rubbing  the  lock  of  his  gun. 

“ Ay,  rub  the  lock  of  your  gun,”  said  his  parent,  bit- 
terly ; “lam  glad  you  have  courage  enough  to  fire  it, 
though  it  be  but  at  a roe-deer.”  Hamish  started  at  this 
undeserved  taunt,  and  cast  a look  of  anger  at  her  in  reply. 
She  saw  that  she  had#)und  the  means  of  giving  him  pain. 

“ Yes,”  she  said,  “ look  fierce  as  you  will  at  an  old 
woman,  and  your  mother ; it  would  be  long  ere  you  bent 
your  brow  on  the  angry  countenance  of  a bearded  man.” 

“ Be  silent,  mother,  or  speak  of  what  you  understand,” 
said  Hamish,  much  irritated,  “ and  that  is  of  the  distaff 
and  the  spindle.” 

“ And  was  it  of  spindle  and  distaff  that  I was  thinking 
when  I bore  you  away  on  my  back,  through  the  fire  of 
six  of  the  Saxon  soldiers,  and  you  a wailing  child  *?  1 
tell  you,  Hamish,  I know  a hundred-fold  more  of  swords 
and  guns  than  ever  you  will  ; and  you  will  never  learn  so 
much  of  noble  war  by  yourself,  as  you  have  seen  when 
you  were  wrapped  up  in  my  plaid.” 

“ You  are  determined  at  least  to  allow  me  no  peace  at 
home,  mother  ; but  this  shall  have  an  end,”  said  Hamish, 
as,  resuming  his  purpose  of  leaving  the  hut,  he  rose  and 
went  towards  the  door. 

“ Stay,  I command  you,”  said  his  mother  ; “ stay  ! 
or  may  the  gun  you  carry  be  the  means  of  your  ruin — 
may  the  road  you  are  going  be  the  track  of  your  funeral !” 

“ What  makes  you  use  such  words,  mother  9”  said  the 
young  man,  turning  a little  back — “ they  are  not  good, 
and  good  cannot  come  of  them.  Farewell  just  now,  we 
are  too  angry  to  speak  together — farewell  ; it  will  be 
long  ere  you  see  me  again.”  And  he  departed,  his  moth- 
er, in  the  first  burst  of  her  impatience,  showrered  after 
him  her  maledictions,  and  in  the  next  invoking  them  on 
her  own  head,  so  that  they  might  spare  her  son’s.  She 
passed  that  day  and  the  next  in  all  the  vehemence  ot 


THE  CANONGATE. 


109 


impotent  and  yet  unrestrained  passion,  now  entreating 
Heaven,  and  such  powers  as  were  familiar  to  her  by  rude 
tradition,  to  restore  her  dear  son,  “ the  calf  of  her  heart 
now  in  impatient  resentment,  meditated  with  what  better 
terms  she  should  rebuke  his  filial  disobedience  upon  his 
return,  and  now  studying  the  most  tender  language  to 
attach  him  to  the  cottage,  which,  when  her  boy  was  pres- 
ent, she  would  not,  in  the  rapture  of  her  affection,  have 
exchanged  for  the  apartments  of  Taymouth  Castle. 

Two  days  passed,  during  which,  neglecting  even  the 
slender  means  of  supporting  nature  which  her  situation 
afforded,  nothing  but  the  strength  of  a frame  accustomed 
to  hardships  and  privations  of  every  kind,  could  have  kept 
her  in  existence,  notwithstanding  the  anguish  of  her  mind 
prevented  her  being  sensible  of  her  personal  weakness. 
Her  dwelling,  at  this  unhappy  period,  was  the  same  cot- 
tage near  which  I had  found  her,  but  then  more  habitable 
by  the  exertions  of  Hamish,  by  whom  it  had  been  in  a 
great  measure  built  and  repaired. 

It  was  on  the  third  day  after  her  son  had  disappeared, 
as  she  sat  at  the  door  rocking  herself,  after  the  fashion  of 
her  countrywomen  when  in  distress,  or  in  pain,  that  the 
then  unwonted  circumstance  occurred  of  a passenger 
being  seen  on  the  high  road  above  the  cottage.  She  cast 
but  one  glance  at  him — he  was  on  horseback,  so  that  it 
could  not  be  Hamish,  and  Elspat  cared  not  enough  for 
any  other  being  on  earth,  to  make  her  turn  her  eyes  to- 
wards him  a second  time.  The  stranger,  however,  paus- 
ed opposite  to  her  cottage,  and  dismounting  from  his  pony, 
led  it  down  the  steep  and  broken  path  which  conducted 
to  her  door. 

“ God  bless  you,  Elspat  MacTavish  !”—  She  looked  at 
the  man  as  he  addressed  her  in  her  native  language,  with 
the  displeased  air  of  one  whose  reverie  is  interrupted  ; 
but  the  traveller  went  on  to  say,  “ I bring  you  tidings  of 
your  son  Hamish.”  At  once,  from  being  the  most  unin- 
teresting being,  in  respect  to  Elspat,  that  could  exist,  the 
form  of  the  stranger  became  awful  in  her  eyes,  as  that  of 
10  VOL.  I. 


110 


CHRONICLES  OF 


a messenger  descended  from  Heaven,  expressly  to  pro- 
nounce upon  her  death  or  life.  She  started  from  her 
seat,  and  with  hands  convulsively  clasped  together,  and 
held  up  to  Heaven,  eyes  fixed  on  the  stranger’s  counte- 
nance, and  person  stooping  forward  to  him,  she  looked 
those  inquiries,  which  her  faltering  tongue  could  not  ar- 
ticulate. “ Your  son  sends  you  his  dutiful  remembrance 
and  this,”  said  the  messenger,  putting  into  Elspat’s  hand 
a small  purse  containing  four  or  five  dollars. 

“ He  is  gone,  he  is  gone  !”  exclaimed  Elspat  ; “ he 
has  sold  himself  to  be  the  servant  of  the  Saxons,  and  I 
shall  never  more  behold  him.  Tell  me,  Miles  MacPhad- 
raick,  for  now  I know  you,  is  it  the  price  of  the  son’s  blood 
that  you  have  put  into  the  mother’s  hand  9” 

“ Now,  God  forbid  !”  answered  MacPhadraick,  who 
was  a tacksman,  and  had  possession  of  a considerable 
tract  of  ground  under  his  Chief,  a proprietor  who  lived 
about  twenty  miles  off — “ God  forbid  I should  do  wrong, 
or  say  wrong,  to  you,  or  to  the  son  of  MacTavish  Mhor ! 
I swear  to  you  by  the  hand  of  my  Chief,  that  your  son  is 
well,  and  will  soon  see  you  ; and  the  rest  he  will  tell  you 
himself.”  So  saying,  MacPhadraick  hastened  back  up 
the  pathway — gained  the  road,  mounted  his  pony,  and 
rode  upon  his  way. 


CHAPTER  X. 


Elspat  MacTavish  remained  gazing  on  the  money, 
as  if  the  impress  of  the  coin  could  have  conveyed  infor- 
mation how  it  was  procured. 

“ I love  not  this  MacPhadraick,”  she  said  to  herself ; 
“ it  was  his  race  of  whom  the  Bard  hath  spoken,  saying, 
Fear  them  not  when  their  words  are  loud  as  the  winter’s 
wind,  but  fear  them  when  they  fall  on  you  like  the  sound 


TIIE  C AXON  GATE. 


Ill 


of  the  thrush’s  song.  And  yet  this  riddle  can  be  read 
but  one  way  : My  son  hath  taken  the  sword,  to  win  that 
with  strength  like  a man,  which  churls  would  keep  him 
from  with  the  words  that  frighten  children.”  This  idea, 
when  once  it  occurred  to  her,  seemed  the  more  reasona- 
ble, that  MacPhadraick,  as  she  well  knew,  himself  a cau- 
tious man,  had  so  far  encouraged  her  husband’s  practices, 
as  occasionally  to  buy  cattle  of  MacTavish,  although  he 
must  have  well  known  how  they  were  come  by,  taking 
care,  however,  that  the  transaction  was  so  made,  as  to  be 
accompanied  with  great  profit  and  absolute  safety.  Who 
so  likely  as  MacPhadraick  to  indicate  to  a young  cateran 
the  glen  in  which  he  could  commence  his  perilous  trade 
with  most  prospect  of  success,  who  so  likely  to  convert 
his  booty  into  money  The  feelings  which  another  might 
have  experienced  on  believing  that  an  only  son  had  rush- 
ed forward  on  the  same  path  in  which  his  father  had  per- 
ished, were  scarce  known  to  the  Highland  mothers  of 
that  day.  She  thought  of  the  death  of  MacTavish  Mhor 
as  that  of  a hero  who  had  fallen  in  his  proper  trade  of 
war,  and  who  had  not  fallen  unavenged.  She  feared  less 
for  her  son’s  life  than  for  his  dishonour.  She  dreaded 
on  his  account  the  subjection  to  strangers,  and  the  death- 
sleep  of  the  soul  which  is  brought  on  by  what  she  regard- 
ed as  slavery. 

The  moral  principle  which  so  naturally  and  so  justly 
occurs  to  the  mind  of  those  who  have  been  educated  un- 
der a settled  government  of  laws  that  protect  the  property 
of  the  weak  against  the  incursions  of  the  strong,  was  to 
poor  Elspat  a book  sealed  and  a fountain  closed.  She 
had  been  taught  to  consider  those  whom  they  called  Sax- 
ons, as  a race  with  whom  the  Gael  were  constantly  at 
war,  and  she  regarded  every  settlement  of  theirs  within 
reach  of  Highland  incursion,  as  affording  a legitimate  ob- 
ject of  attack  and  plunder.  Her  feelings  on  this  point 
had  been  strengthened  and  confirmed,  not  only  by  the 
desire  of  revenge  for  the  death  of  her  husband,  but  by 
the  sense  of  general  indignation  entertained,  not  unjustly, 
through  the  Highlands  of  Scotland,  on  account  of  the 


112 


CHRONICLES  OF 


barbarous  and  violent  conduct  of  the  victors  after  the 
battle  of  Culloden.  Other  Highland  clans,  too,  she  re- 
garded as  the  fair  objects  of  plunder  when  that  was  pos- 
sible, upon  the  score  of  ancient  enmities  and  deadly  feuds. 

The  prudence  that  might  have  weighed  the  slender 
means,  which  the  times  afforded  for  resisting  the  efforts  of  a 
combined  government,  which  had,  in  its  less  compact  and 
established  authority,  been  unable  to  put  down  the  rava- 
ges of  such  lawless  caterans  as  MacTavish  Mhor,  was 
unknown  to  a solitary  woman,  whose  ideas  still  dwelt  upon 
her  own  early  times.  She  imagined  that  her  son  had 
only  to  proclaim  himself  his  father’s  successor  in  adven- 
ture and  enterprize,  and  that  a force  of  men  as  gallant  as 
those  who  had  followed  his  father’s  banner,  would  crowd 
around  to  support  it  when  again  displayed.  To  her, 
Hamish  was  the  eagle  who  had  only  to  soar  aloft  and  re- 
sume his  native  place  in  the  skies,  without  her  being  able 
to  comprehend  how7  many  additional  eyes  would  have 
watched  his  flight,  how  many  additional  bullets  would  have 
been  directed  at  his  bosom.  To  be  brief,  Elspat  was 
one  who  viewed  the  present  state  of  society  with  the  same 
feelings  with  which  she  regarded  the  times  that  had  passed 
away.  She  had  been  indigent,  neglected,  oppressed,  since 
the  days  that  her  husband  had  no  longer  been  feared  and 
powerful,  and  she  thought  that  the  term  of  her  ascend- 
ance would  return  when  her  son  had  determined  to  play 
the  part  of  his  father.  If  she  permitted  her  eye  to  glance 
farther  on  futurity,  it  was  but  to  anticipate  that  she  must 
be  for  many  a day  cold  in  the  grave,  with  the  coronach  of 
her  tribe  cried  duly  over  her,  before  her  fair-haired  Ha- 
mish could,  according  to  her  calculation,  die  with  his  hand 
on  the  basket-hilt  of  the  red  claymore.  His  father’s  hair 
was  grey,  ere,  after  a hundred  dangers,  he  had  fallen  with 
his  arms  in  his  hands — That  she  should  have  seen  and 
survived  the  sight,  was  a natural  consequence  of  the  man- 
ners of  that  age.  And  better  it  was — such  was  her  proud 
thought — that  she  had  seen  him  so  die,  than  to  have  wit- 
nessed his  departure  from  life  in  a,  smoky  hovel — on  a 
bed  of  rotten  straw,  like  an  over- worn  hound*  or  a buf* 


THE  CANONGATE. 


113 


lock  which  died  of  disease.  But  the  hour  of  her  young, 
her  brave  Hamisl:,  was  yet  far  distant.  He  must  suc- 
ceed— he  must  conquer,  like  his  father.  And  when  he 
fell  at  length, — for  she  anticipated  for  him  no  bloodless 
death, — Elspat  would  ere  then  have  lain  long  in  the  grave, 
and  could  neither  see  his  death-struggle,  nor  mourn  over 
his  grave  sod. 

With  such  wild  notions  working  in  Jjer  brain,  the  spirit 
of  Elspat  rose  to  its  usual  pitch,  or  rather  to  one  which 
seemed  higher.  In  the  emphatic  language  of  Scripture, 
which  in  that  idiom  does  not  greatly  differ  from  her  own, 
she  arose,  she  washed  and  changed  her  apparel,  and  ate 
bread,  and  was  refreshed. 

She  longed  eagerly  for  the  return  of  her  son,  but  she 
now  longed  not  with  the  bitter  anxiety  of  doubt  and  ap- 
prehension. She  said  to  herself,  that  much  must  be  done 
ere  he  could  in  these  times  arise  to  be  an  eminent  and 
dreaded  leader.  Yet  when  she  saw  him  again,  she  almost 
expected  him  at  the  head  of  a daring  band,  with  pipes 
playing,  and  banners  flying,  the  noble  tartans  fluttering 
free  in  the  wind,  in  despite  of  the  laws  which  had  sup- 
pressed, under  severe  penalties,  the  use  of  the  national 
garb,  and  all  the  appurtenances  of  Highland  chivalry. 
For  all  thjs,  her  eager  imagination  was  content  only  to 
allow  the  interval  of  some  days. 

From  the  moment  this  opinion  had  taken  deep  and 
serious  possession  of  her  mind,  her  thoughts  were  bent 
upon  receiving  her  son  at  the  head  of  his  adherents  in 
the  manner  in  which  she  used  to  adorn  her  hut  for  the 
return  of  his  father. 

The  substantial  means  of  subsistence  she  had  not  the 
power  of  providing,  nor  did  she  consider  that  of  import- 
ance. The  successful  caterans  would  bring  with  them 
herds  and  flocks.  But  the  interior  of  her  hut  was  ar- 
ranged for  their  reception — the  usquebaugh  wTas  brewed 
or  distilled  in  a larger  quantity  than  it  could  have  been 
supposed  one  lone  woman  could  have  made  ready.  Her 
hut  was  put  into  such  order  as  might,  in  some  degree, 
10*  VOL.  i. 


114 


CHRONICLES  OF 


give  it  the  appearance  of  a day  of  rejoicing.  It  was  swept 
and  decorated  with  boughs  of  various  kinds,  like  the  house 
of  a Jewess,  upon  what  is  termed  the  Feast  of  the  Tab- 
ernacles. The  produce  of  the  milk  of  her  little  flock 
was  prepared  in  as  great  variety  of  forms  as  her  skill  ad- 
mitted, to  entertain  her  son  and  his  associates  whom  she 
expected  to  receive  along  with  him. 

But  the  principal  decoration,  which  she  sought  with 
the  greatest  toil,  was  the  cloud-berry,  a scarlet  fruit, 
which  is  only  found  on  very  high  hills,  and  there  only  in 
small  quantities.  Her  husband,  or  perhaps  one  of  his 
forefathers,  had  chosen  this  as  the  emblem  of  his  family, 
because  it  seemed  at  once  to  imply  by  its  scarcity  the 
smallness  of  their  clan,  and  by  the  places  in  which  it  was 
found,  the  ambitious  height  of  their  pretensions. 

For  the  time  that  these  simple  preparations  of  welcome 
endured,  Elspat  was  in  a state  of  troubled  happiness.  In 
fact,  her  only  anxiety  was  that  she  might  be  able  to  com- 
plete all  that  she  could  do  to  welcome  Hamish  and  the 
friends  who  she  supposed  must  have  attached  themselves 
to  his  band,  before  they  should  arrive,  and  find  her  un- 
provided for  their  reception. 

But  when  such  efforts  as  she  could  make  had  been  ac- 
complished, she  once  more  had  nothing  left  to  engage  her 
save  the  trifling  care  of  her  goats  ; and  when  these  had 
been  attended  to,  she  had  only  to  review  her  little  pre- 
parations, renew  such  as  were  of  a transitory  nature,  re- 
place decayed  branches  and  fading  boughs,  and  then  to 
sit  down  at  her  cottage  door  and  watch  the  road,  as  it 
ascended  on  the  one  side  from  the  banks  of  the  Awe,  and 
on  the  other  wound  round  the  heights  of  the  mountain, 
with  such  a degree  of  accommodation  to  hill  and  level  as 
the  plan  of  the  military  engineer  permitted.  While  so 
occupied,  her  imagination,  anticipating  the  future  from 
recollections  of  the  past,  formed  out  of  the  morning  mist 
or  the  evening  cloud  the  wild  forms  of  an  advancing  band, 
which  were  then  called  “ Sidier  Dhu,” — dark  soldiers 
dressed  in  their  native  tartan,  and  so  named  to  distinguish 


TIIE  CANONCATE. 


115 


them  from  the  scarlet  ranks  of  the  British  army.  In  this 
occupation  she  spent  many  hours  of  each  morning  and 
evening. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


It  was  in  vain  that  Elspat’s  eyes  surveyed  the  distant 
path,  by  the  earliest  light  of  the  dawn  and  the  latest  glim- 
mer of  the  twilight.  No  rising  dust  awakened  the  ex- 
pectation of  nodding  plumes  or  flashing  arms — the  solitary 
traveller  trudged  listlessly  along  in  his  brown  Lowland 
great-coat,  his  tartans  dyed  black  or  purple,  to  comply 
with  or  evade  the  law  which  prohibited  their  being  worn 
in  their  variegated  hues.  The  spirit  of  the  Gael,  sunk 
and  broken  by  the  severe  though  perhaps  necessary  laws, 
that  proscribed  the  dress  and  arms  which  he  considered 
as  his  birthright,  was  intimated  by  his  drooping  head  and 
dejected  appearance.  Not  in  such  depressed  wanderers 
did  Elspat  recognize  the  light  and  free  step  of  her  son,  now, 
as  she  concluded,  regenerated  from  every  sign  of  Saxon 
thraldom.  Night  by  night,  as  darkness  came,  she  re- 
moved from  her  unclosed  door  to  throw  herself  on  her 
restless  pallet,  not  to  sleep,  but  to  watch.  The  brave  and 
the  terrible,  she  said,  walk  by  night — their  steps  are  heard 
in  darkness,  when  all  is  silent  save  the  whirlwind  and  the 
cataract — the  timid  deer  comes  only  forth  w’hen  the  sun 
is  upon  the  mountain’s  peak  ; but  the  bold  wolf  walks  in 
the  red  light  of  the  harvest-moon.  She  reasoned  in  vain 
— her  son’s  expected  summons  did  not  call  her  from  the 
lowly  couch,  where  she  lay  dreaming  of  his  approach. 
Hamish  came  not. 

“ Hope  deferred,”  saith  the  royal  sage,  <c  maketh  the 
heart  sick and  strong  as  was  Elspat’s  constitution,  she 
began  to  experience  that  it  was  unequal  to  the  toils  to 
which  her  anxious  and  immoderate  affection  subjected 


116 


CHRONICLES  OF 


her,  when  early  one  morning  the  appearance  of  a travel- 
ler on  the  lonely  mountain-road,  revived  hopes  which  had 
begun  to  sink  into  listless  despair.  There  was  no  sign  of 
Saxon  subjugation  about  the  stranger.  At  a distance  she 
could  see  the  flutter  of  the  belted-plaid,  that  drooped  in 
graceful  folds  behind  him,  and  the  plume  that,  placed  in 
the  bonnet,  showed  rank  and  gentle  birth.  He  carried 
a gun  over  his  shoulder,  the  claymore  was  swinging  by 
his  side,  with  its  usual  appendages,  the  dirk,  the  pistol, 
and  the  sporran  mollach .*  Ere  yet  her  eye  had  scanned 
all  these  particulars,  the  light  step  of  the  traveller  was 
hastened,  his  arm  was  waved  in  token  of  recognition — a 
moment  more,  and  Elspat  held  in  her  arms  her  darling 
son,  dressed  in  the  garb  of  his  ancestors,  and  looking,  in 
her  maternal  eyes,  the  fairest  among  ten  thousand. 

The  first  outpouring  of  affection  it  would  be  impossible 
to  describe.  Blessings  mingled  with  the  most  endearing 
epithets  which  her  energetic  language  affords,  in  striving 
to  express  the  wild  rapture  of  Elspat’s  joy.  Her  board 
was  heaped  hastily  with  all  she  had  to  offer  ; and  the 
mother  watched  tlie  young  soldier,  as  he  partook  of  the 
refreshment,  with  feelings  how  similar  to,  yet  how  differ- 
ent. from,  those  with  which  she  had  seen  him  draw  his 
first  sustenance  from  her  bosom  ! 

When  the  tumult  of  joy  was  appeased,  Elspat  became 
anxious  to  know  her  son’s  adventures  since  they  parted, 
and  could  not  help  greatly  censuring  his  rashness  fortra- 
versing the  hills  in  the  Highland  dress  in  the  broad  sun- 
shine; when  the  penalty  was  so  heavy,  and  so  many  red 
soldiers  were  abroad  in  the  country. 

“ Fear  not  for  me,  mother,”  said  Hamish,  in  a tone 
designed  to  relieve  her  anxiety,  and  yet  somewhat  em- 
barrassed ; “ I may  wear  t lie  breacany  at  the  gate  of 
Fort-Auguslus,  if  I like  it.” 

“ Oh,  be  not  too  daring,  my  beloved  Hamish,  though 
it  be  the  fault  which  best  becomes  thy  father’s  son — yet 


* The  goat-skin  pouch  worn  by  the  Highlanders  round  their  waist, 
f That  which  is  variegated,  i.  e.  the  tartan. 


THE  CANONGATE. 


117 


be  not  too  daring  ! Alas,  they  fight  not  now  as  in  former 
days,  with  fair  weapons,  and  on  equal  terms,  but  take 
odds  of  numbers  and  of  arms,  so  that  the  feeble  and  the 
strong  are  alike  levelled  by  the  shot  of  a boy.  And  do 
not  think  me  unworthy  to  be  called  your  father’s  widow, 
and  your  mother,  because  1 speak  thus  ; for  God  know- 
eth,  that,  man  to  man,  1 would  peril  thee  against  the  best 
in  Breadalbane,  and  broad  Lorn  besides.” 

“ I assure  you,  my  dearest  mother,”  replied  Ilamish, 
“ that  1 am  in  no  danger.  But  have  you  seen  Mac- 
Phadraick,  mother,  and  what  has  he  said  to  you  on  my 
account  9” 

“ Silver  he  left  me  in  plenty,  Hamish  ; but  the  best  of 
his  comfort  was,  that  you  were  well,  and  would  see  me 
soon.  But  beware  of  MacPhadraick,  my  son  ; for  when 
he  called  himself  the  friend  of  your  father,  he  better  loved 
the  most  worthless  stirk  in  his  herd,  than  he  did  the  life- 
blood of  MacTavish  Mhor.  Use  his  services,  therefore, 
and  pay  him  for  them — for  it  is  thus  we  should  deal  with 
the  unworthy  ; but  take  my  counsel,  and  trust  him  not.” 

Hamish  could  not  suppress  a sigh,  which  seemed  tA 
Elspat  to  intimate  that  the  caution  came  too  late.  “ What 
have  you  done  with  him  9”  she  continued,  eager  and 
alarmed.  “ I had  money  of  him,  and  he  gives  not  that 
without  value— he  is  none  of  those  who  exchange  barley 
for  chaff.  Oh,  if  you  repent  you  of  your  bargain,  and 
if  it  be  one  which  you  may  break  oif  without  disgrace  to 
your  truth  or  your  manhood,  take  back  his  silver,  and 
trust  not  to  his  fair  words.” 

“ It  may  not  be,  mother,”  said  Hamish  ; “ I do  not 
repent  my  engagement,  unless  that  it  must  make  me  leave 
you  soon.” 

“ Leave  me  ! how  leave  me  9 Silly  boy,  think  you  I 
know  not  what  duty  belongs  to  the  wife  or  mother  of  a 
daring  man  ! Thou  art  but  a boy  yet  ; and  when  thy 
father  had  been  the  dread  of  the  country  for  twrenty  years, 
he  did  not  despise  my  company  and  assistance,  but  often 
said  my  help  was  worth  that  of  two  strong  gillies.” 


118 


CHRONICLES  OF 


“ It  is  not  on  that  score,  mother  ; but  since  I must  leave 
the  country ” 

“ Leave  the  country  !”  replied  his  mother,  interrupt- 
ing him;  “ and  think  you  that  I am  like  a bush,  that  is 
rooted  to  the  soil  where  it  grows,  and  must  die  if  carried 
elsewhere  I have  breathed  other  winds  than  these  of 
Ben  Cruachan — I have  followed  your  father  to  the  wilds 
of  Ross,  and  the  impenetrable  deserts  of  Y Mac  Y Mhor 
— Tush,  man,  my  limbs,  old  as  they  are,  will  bear  me  as 
far  as  young  feet  can  trace  the  way.” 

“ Alas,  mother,”  said  the  young  man,  with  a faltering 
accent,  “ but  to  cross  the  sea ” 

“ The  sea  who  am  I that  I should  fear  the  sea  ? 
Have  I never  been  in  a birling  in  my  life — never  known 
the  sound  of  Mull,  the  Isles  of  Treshornish,  and  the 
rough  rocks  of  Harris  <?” 

“ Alas,  mother,  I go  far,  far  from  all  of  these — I am 
enlisted  in  one  of  the  new  regiments,  and  we  go  against 
the  French  in  America.” 

“ Enlisted  !”  uttered  the  astonished  mother — “ against 
my  will — without  my  consent — You  could  not — you  would 
not,” — then  rising  up,  and  assuming  a posture  of  almost 
imperial  command,  “ Hamish,  you  dared  not  !” 

“ Despair,  mother,  dares  everything,”  answered  Ha- 
mish, in  a tone  of  melancholy  resolution.  “ What  should 
I do  here,  where  I can  scarce  get  bread  for  myself  and 
you,  and  when  the  times  are  growing  daily  worse  Would 
you  but  sit  down  and  listen,  I would  convince  you  I have 
acted  for  the  best.” 

With  a bitter  smile  Elspat  sat  down,  and  the  same  se- 
vere ironical  expression  was  on  her  features,  as,  with  her 
lips  firmly  closed,  she  listened  to  his  vindication. 

Hamish  went  on,  without  being  disconcerted  by  her 
expected  displeasure.  “ When  I left  you,  dearest  mother, 
it  was  to  go  to  MacPhadraick’s  house,  for  although  I know 
he  is  crafty  and  worldly,  after  the  fashion  of  the  Sasse- 
nach, yet  he  is  wise,  and  I thought  how  he  would  teach 
me,  as  it  would  cost  him  nothing,  in  which  way  I could 
mend  our  estate  in  the  world.” 


THli  CANONGATE. 


119 


" Our  estate  in  the  world  !”  said  Elspat,  losing  patience 
at  the  word  ; “ and  went  you  to  a base  fellow  with  a soul 
no  better  than  that  of  a cowherd,  to  ask  counsel  about 
your  conduct  Your  father  asked  none,  save  at  his  cour- 
age and  his  sword.” 

“ Dearest  mother,”  answered  Hamish,  “ how  shall  1 
convince  you  that  you  live  in  this  land  of  our  fathers,  as 
if  our  fathers  were  yet  living  9 You  walk  as  it  were  in  a 
dream,  surrounded  by  the  phantoms  of  those  who  have 
been  long  with  the  dead.  When  my  father  lived  and 
fought,  the  great  respected  the  Man  of  the  strong  right 
hand,  and  the  rich  feared  him.  He  had  protection  from 
MacAllan  Mhor,  and  from  Caberfae,  and  tribute  from 
meaner  men.  That  is  ended,  and  his  son  would  only 
earn  a disgraceful  and  unpitied  death,  by  the  practices 
which  gave  his  father  credit  and  power  among  those  who 
wear  the  breacan.  The  land  is  conquered — its  lights  are 
quenched, — Glengary,  Lochiel,  Perth,  Lord  Lewis,  all 
the  high  chiefs  are  dead  or  in  exile — We  may  mourn  for 
it,  but  we  cannot  help  it.  Bonnet,  broadsword,  and  spor- 
ran— power,  strength,  and  wealth,  were  all  lost  on  Drum- 
mossie-muir.” 

“ It  is  false  !”  said  Elspat,  fiercely  ; “ you,  and  such 
like  dastardly  spirits,  are  quelled  by  your  own  faint  hearts, 
not  by  the  strength  of  the  enemy  ; you  are  like  the  fear- 
full  waterfowl,  to  whom  the  least  cloud  in  the  sky  seems 
the  shadow  of  the  eagle.” 

“ Mother,”  said  Hamish,  proudly,  “ lay  not  faint  heart 
to  my  charge.  I go  where  men  are  wanted  who  have 
strong  arms  and  bold  hearts  too.  I leave  a desert,  for  a 
land  where  I may  gather  fame.” 

“ And  you  leave  your  mother  to  perish  in  want,  age, 
and  solitude,”  said  Elspat,  essaying  successively  every 
means  of  moving  a resolution,  which  she  began  to  see 
was  more  deeply  rooted  than  she  had  at  first  thought. 

“ Not  so,  neither,”  he  answered  ; “ 1 leave  you  to 
comfort  and  certainty,  which  you  have  yet  never  known. 
Barcaldine’s  son  is  made  a leader,  and  with  him  I have 


120 


CHRONICLES  OF 


enrolled  myself;  MacPhadraick  acts  for  him,  and  raises 
men,  and  finds  his  own  in  it.” 

“ That  is  the  truest  word  of  the  tale,  were  all  the  rest 
as  false  as  hell,”  said  the  old  woman,  bitterly. 

“ But  we  are  to  find  our  good  in  it  also,”  continued 
Hamish ; “ for  Barcaldine  is  to  give  you  a shieling  in  his 
wood  of  Letter-findreight,  with  grass  for  your  goats,  and 
a cow,  when  you  please  to  have  one,  on  the  common  ; 
and  my  own  pay,  dearest  mother,  though  I am  far  away, 
will  do  more  than  provide  you  with  meal,  and  with  all  else 
you  can  want.  Do  not  fear  for  me.  I enter  a private 
gentleman  ; but  I will  return,  if  hard  fighting  and  regular 
duty  can  deserve  it,  an  officer,  and  with  half  a dollar 
a-day.” 

“ Poor  child  ! — ” replied  Elspat,  in  a tone  of  pity 
mingled  with  contempt,  “ and  you  trust  MacPhadraick  V9 
“ ] might,  mother — ” said  Hamish,  the  dark  red  col- 
our of  his  race  crossing  his  forehead  and  cheeks,  “ for 
MacPhadraick  knows  the  blood  which  flows  in  my  veins, 
and  is  aware,  that  should  he  break  trust  with  you,  he 
might  count  the  days  which  could  bring  Hamish  back  to 
Breadalbane,  and  number  those  of  his  life  within  three 
suns  more.  I would  kill  hirn  at  his  own  hearth,  did  he 
break  his  word  with  me — I would,  by  the  great  Being 
who  made  us  both  !” 

The  look  and  attitude  of  the  young  soldier  for  a mo- 
ment overawed  Elspat ; she  was  unused  to  see  him  express 
a deep  and  bitter  mood,  which  reminded  her  so  strongly 
of  his  father,  but  she  resumed  her  remonstrances  in  the 
same  taunting  manner  in  which  she  had  commenced  them. 

“ Poor  boy  !”  she  said  ; “ and  you  think  that  at  the 
distance  of  half  the  world  your  threats  will  be  heard  or 
thought  of ! But,  go — go — place  your  neck  under  him  of 
Hanover’s  yoke,  against  whom  every  true  Gael  fought  to 
the  death — Go,  disown  the  royal  Stuart,  for  whom  your 
father,  and  his  fathers,  and  your  mother’s  fathers,  have 
crimsoned  many  a field  with  their  blood. — Go,  put  your 
head  under  the  belt  of  one  of  the  race  of  Dermid,  whose 
children  murdered — Yes,”  she  added,  with  a wild  shriek, 


TIIE  CANONGATE. 


121 


u murdered  your  mother’s  fathers  in  their  peaceful  dwel- 
lings at  Glencoe  ! — Yes,”  she  again  exclaimed,  with  a 
wilder  and  shriller  scream,  “ 1 was  then  unborn,  but  rny 
mother  has  told  me — and  1 attended  to  the  voice  of  my 
mother — well  1 remember  her  words  ! — They  came  in 
peace,  and  were  received  in  friendship,  and  blood  and 
fire  rose,  and  screams  and  murder  !” 

“ Mother,”  answered  Hamish,  mournfully,  but  with  a 
decided  tone,  “ all  that  1 have  thought  over — there  is 
not  a drop  of  the  blood  of  Glencoe  on  the  noble  hand  of 
Barcaldine — with  the  unhappy  house  of  Clenlyon  the 
curse  remains,  and  on  them  God  hath  avenged  it.” 

“ You  speak  like  the  Saxon  priest  already,”  replied 
his  mother  ; “ will  you  not  better  stay,  and  ask  a kirk 
from  Mac  Allan  Mhor,  that  you  may  preach  forgiveness 
to  the  race  of  Dermid  ?” 

“Yesterday  was  yesterday,”  answered  Hamish,  “ and 
to-day  is  to-day.  When  the  clans  are  crushed  and  con- 
founded together,  it  is  well  and  wise  that  their  hatreds 
and  their  feuds  should  not  survive  their  independence  and 
their  power.  He  that  cannot  execute  vengeance  like  a 
man,  should  not  harbour  useless  enmity  like  a craven. 
Mother,  young  Barcaldine  is  true  and  brave  ; I know  that 
MacPhadraick  counselled  him,  that  he  should  not  let  me 
take  leave  of  you,  lest  you  dissuaded  me  from  my  pur- 
pose ; but  he  said,  ‘ Hamish  MacTavish  is  the  son  of  a 
brave  man,  and  he  will  not  break  his  word.’  Mother, 
Barcaldine  leads  an  hundred  of  the  bravest  of  the  sons  of 
the  Gael  in  their  native  dress,  and  with  their  fathers’  arms 
— heart  to  heart — shoulder  to  shoulder.  I have  sworn 
to  go  with  him — He  has  trusted  me,  and  1 will  trust  him.” 

At  this  reply,  so  firmly  and  resolvedly  pronounced, 
Elspat  remained  like  one  thunderstruck,  and  sunk  in  des- 
pair. The  arguments  which  she  had  considered  so  irre- 
sistibly conclusive,  had  recoiled  like  a wave  from  a rock. 
After  a long  pause,  she  filled  her  son’s  quaigh,  and  pre- 
sented it  to  him  with  an  air  of  dejected  deference  and 
submission. 

11  VOL.  i. 


122 


CHRONICLES  OF 


“ Drink,”  she  said,  “ to  thy  father’s  roof-tree,  ere  you 
leave  it  for  ever  ; and  tell  me, — since  the  chains  of  a new 
King,  and  of  a new  Chief,  whom  your  fathers  knew  not 
save  as  mortal  enemies,  are  fastened  upon  the  limbs  of 
your  father’s  son, — tell  me  how  many  links  you  count 
upon  them  9” 

Hamish  took  the  cup,  but  looked  at  her  as  if  uncertain 
of  her  meaning.  She  proceeded  in  a raised  voice. 
“ Tell  me,”  she  said,  “ for  I have  a right  to  know,  for 
how  many  days  the  will  of  those  you  have  made  your 
masters  permits  me  to  look  upon  you  9 — In  other  words, 
how  many  are  the  days  of  my  life  9 for  when  you  leave 
me,  the  earth  has  naught  besides  worth  living  for !” 

“ Mother,”  replied  Hamish  MacTavish,  “ for  six  days 
I may  remain  with  you,  and  if  you  will  set  out  with  me  on 
the  fifth,  I will  conduct  you  in  safety  to  your  new  dwel- 
ling. But  if  you  remain  here,  then  will  I depart  on  the 
seventh  by  day-break — then,  as  at  the  last  moment,  1 
must  set  out  for  Dunbarton,  for  if  I appear  not  on  the 
eighth  day,  I am  subject  to  punishment  as  a deserter,  and 
am  dishonoured  as  a soldier  and  a gentleman.” 

“ Your  father’s  foot,”  she  answered,  “ was  free  as  the 
wind  on  the  heath  — it  were  as  vain  to  say  to  him  where 
goest  thou,  as  to  ask  that  viewless  driver  of  the  clouds, 
wherefore  blowest  thou.  Tell  me  under  what  penalty 
thou  must — since  go  thou  must,  and  go  thou  wilt — return 
to  thy  thraldom  9” 

“ Call  it  not  thraldom,  mother,  it  is  the  service  of  an 
honourable  soldier — the  only  service  which  is  now  open 
to  the  son  of  MacTavish  Mhor.” 

“ Yet  say  what  is  the  penalty  if  thou  shouldst  not  re- 
turn 9”  replied  Elspat. 

“ Military  punishment  as  a deserter,”  answered  Ha- 
mish ; writhing,  however,  as  his  mother  failed  not  to  ob- 
serve, under  some  internal  feelings,  which  she  resolved 
to  probe  to  the  uttermost. 

“ And  that,”  she  said,  with  assumed  calmness,  which 
her  glancing  eye  disowned,  “ is  the  punishment  of  a dis- 
obedient hound,  is  it  not?” 


THE  CANONGATE. 


123 


“ Ask  me  no  more,  mother,”  said  Hamish  ; “ the  pun- 
ishment is  nothing  to  one  who  will  never  deserve  it.” 

“ To  me  it  is  something,”  replied  Elsput,  “ since  1 
know  better  than  thou,  that  where  there  is  power  to  inflict, 
there  is  often  the  will  to  do  so  without  cause.  1 would 
pray  for  thee,  Ilamish,  and  I must  know  against  what 
evils  I should  beseech  Him  who  leaves  none  unguarded, 
to  protect  thy  youth  and  simplicity.” 

“ Mother,”  said  Hamish,  “ it  signifies  little  to  what  a 
criminal  may  be  exposed,  if  a man  is  determined  not  to 
be  such.  Our  Highland  chiefs  used  also  to  punish  their 
vassals,  and,  as  1 have  heard,  severely — Was  it  not 
Lachlan  Maclan,  whom  we  remember  of  old,  whose  head 
was  struck  off  by  order  of  his  chieftain  for  shooting  at  the 
stag  before  him  9” 

“ Ay,”  said  Elspat,  “ and  right  he  had  to  lose  it,  since 
he  dishonoured  the  father  of  the  people  even  in  the  face 
of  the  assembled  clan.  But  the  chiefs  were  noble  in  their 
ire — they  punished  with  the  sharp  blade,  and  not  with 
the  batton.  Their  punishments  drew  blood,  but  they  did 
not  infer  dishonour.  Canst  thou  say  the  same  for  the 
laws  under  whose  yoke  thou  hast  placed  thy  free-born 
neck  9” 

“ I cannot — mother — I cannot,”  said  Hamish,  mourn- 
fully. “ I saw  them  punish  a Sassenach  for  deserting, 
as  they  called  it,  his  banner.  He  was  scourged — I own 
it — scourged  like  a hound  who  has  offended  an  imperious 
master.  I was  sick  at  the  sight — I confess  it.  But  the 
punishment  of  dogs  is  only  for  those  worse  than  dogs, 
who  know  not  how7  to  keep  their  faith.” 

“ To  this  infamy,  however,  thou  hast  subjected  thyself, 
Hamish,”  replied  Elspat,  “ if  thou  shouldst  give,  or  thy 
officers  take,  measure  of  offence  against  thee. — I speak 
no  more  to  thee  on  thy  purpose. — Were  the  sixth  day 
from  this  morning  sun  my  dying  day,  and  thou  wert  to 
stay  to  close  mine  eyes,  thou  wouldst  run  the  risk  of  be- 
ing lashed  like  a dog  at  a post — yes  ! unless  thou  hadst 
the  gallant  heart  to  leave  me  to  die  alone,  and  upon  my 
desolate  hearth,  the  last  spark  of  thy  father’s  fire,  and  of 


124 


CHRONICLES  OF 


thy  forsaken  mother’s  life,  to  be  extinguished  together  V9 
— Hamish  traversed  the  hut  with  an  impatient  and  angry 
pace. 

“ Mother,”  he  said  at  length,  “ concern  not  yourself 
about  such  things.  1 cannot  be  subjected  to  such  infamy, 
for  never  will  1 deserve  it  ; and  were  I threatened  with 
it,  I should  know  how  to  die  before  I was  so  far  dishon- 
oured.” 

“ There  spoke  the  son  of  the  husband  of  my  heart  !” 
replied  Elspat  ; and  she  changed  the  discourse,  and 
seemed  to  listen  in  melancholy  acquiescence,  when  her 
son  reminded  her  how  short  the  time  was  which  they 
were  permitted  to  pass  in  each  other’s  society,  and  en- 
treated that  it  might  be  spent  without  useless  and  unpleas- 
ant recollections  respecting  the  circumstances  under  which 
they  must  soon  be  separated. 

Elspat  was  now  satisfied  that  her  son,  with  some  of  his 
father’s  other  properties,  preserved  the  haughty  masculine 
spirit  which  rendered  it  impossible  to  divert  him  from  a 
resolution  which  he  had  deliberately  adopted.  She  as- 
sumed, therefore,  an  exterior  of  apparent  submission  to 
their  inevitable  separation  ; and  if  she  now  and  then 
broke  out  into  complaints  and  murmurs,  it  was  either  that 
she  could  not  altogether  suppress  the  natural  impetuosity 
of  her  temper,  or  because  she  had  the  wit  to  consider, 
that  a total  and  unreserved  acquiescence  might  have 
seemed  to  her  son  constrained  and  suspicious,  and  induc- 
ed him  to  watch  and  defeat  the  means  by  which  she  still 
hoped  to  prevent  his  leaving  her.  Her  ardent,  though 
selfish  affection  for  her  son,  incapable  of  being  qualified 
by  a regard  for  the  true  interests  of  the  unfortunate  ob- 
ject of  her  attachment,  resembled  the  instinctive  fond- 
ness of  the  animal  race  for  their  offspring  ; and  diving 
little  farther  into  futurity  than  one  of  the  inferior  crea- 
tures, she  only  felt,  that  to  be  separated  from  Hamish  was 
to  die. 

In  the  brief  interval  permitted  them,  Elspat  exhausted 
every  art  which  affection  could  devise,  to  render  agreea- 
ble to  him  the  space  which  they  were  apparently  to  spend 


TIIE  CANONGATE. 


125 


with  each  other.  Her  memory  carried  her  far  back  into 
former  days,  and  her  stores  of  legendary  history,  which 
furnish  at  all  times  a principal  amusement  of  the  High- 
lander in  his  moments  of  repose,  were  augmented  by  an 
unusual  acquaintance  with  the  songs  of  ancient  bards,  and 
traditions  of  the  most  approved  Seannachies  and  tellers 
of  tales.  Her  officious  attentions  to  her  son’s  accommo- 
dation, indeed,  were  so  unremitted  as  almost  to  give  him 
pain  ; and  he  endeavoured  quietly  to  prevent  her  from 
taking  so  much  personal  toil  in  selecting  the  blooming 
heath  for  his  bed,  or  preparing  the  meal  for  his  refresh- 
ment. “ Let  me  alone,  Hamish,”  she  would  reply  on 
such  occasions  ; “ you  follow  your  own  will  in  departing 
from  your  mother,  let  your  mother  have  hers  in  doing 
what  gives  her  pleasure  while  you  remain.” 

So  much  she  seemed  to  be  reconciled  to  the  arrange- 
ments which  he  had  made  in  her  behalf,  that  she  could  hear 
him  speak  to  her  of  her  removing  to  the  lands  of  Green 
Colin,  as  the  gentleman  was  called,  on  whose  estate  he 
had  provided  her  an  asylum.  In  truth,  however,  nothing 
could  be  farther  from  her  thoughts.  From  what  he  had 
said  during  their  first  violent  dispute,  Elspat  had  gather- 
ed, that  if  Hamish  returned  not  by  the  appointed  time 
permitted  by  his  furlough,  he  would  incur  the  hazard  of 
corporal  punishment.  Were  he  placed  within  the  risk  of 
being  thus  dishonoured,  she  was  well  aware  that  he  would 
never  submit  to  the  disgrace,  by  a return  to  the  regiment 
where  it  might  be  inflicted.  Whether  she  looked  to  any 
farther  probable  consequences  of  her  unhappy  scheme, 
cannot  be  known  ; but  the  partner  of  MacTavish  Mhor, 
in  all  his  perils  and  wanderings,  was  familiar  with  an  hun- 
dred instances  of  resistance  or  escape,  by  which  one 
brave  man,  amidst  a land  of  rocks,  lakes,  and  mountains, 
dangerous  passes,  and  dark  forests,  might  baffle  the  pur- 
suit of  hundreds.  For  the  future,  therefore,  she  feared 
nothing  ; her  sole  engrossing  object  was  to  prevent  her 
son  from  keeping  his  word  with  his  commanding  officer, 

1 1 * VOL.  I. 


126 


CHRONICLES  OF 


“ Mr.  Adam  Hartley,  I beg  to  know  why  I am  hon- 
oured by  your  sorrow  9” 

“ 1 pity  you,”  answered  Hartley,  “ both  for  the  obsti- 
nacy of  selfishness,  which  can  think  of  wealth,  after  the 
scene  you  saw  last  night,  and  for  the  idle  vision  which 
leads  you  to  believe  that  you  can  obtain  possession  of  it.” 
“ Selfish  !”  cried  Middlemas  ; “ why,  1 am  a dutiful 
son,  labouring  to  clear  the  memory  of  a calumniated 
mother — And  ami  a visionary  — Why,  it  was  to  this 
hope  that  I aw’akened,  when  old  Monqada’s  letter  to  Grey, 
devoting  me  to  perpetual  obscurity,  first  roused  me  to  a 
sense  of  my  situation,  and  dispelled  the  dreams  of  my 
childhood.  Do  you  think  that  1 would  ever  have  sub- 
mitted to  the  drudgery  which  I shared  with  you,  but  that, 
by  doing  so,  1 kept  in  view  the  only  traces  of  these  un- 
natural parents,  by  means  of  which  I proposed  to  intro- 
duce myself  to  their  notice,  and,  if  necessary,  enforce 
the  rights  of  a legitimate  child  9 The  silence  and  death 
of  Monqada  broke  my  plans,  and  it  was  then  only  I re- 
conciled myself  to  the  thoughts  of  India.” 

“ You  were  very  young,  to  have  known  so  much  of 
the  Scottish  law,  at  the  time  when  we  were  first  acquaint- 
ed,” said  Hartley.  “ But  I can  guess  your  instructer.” 
“ No  less  authority  than  Tom  Hillary’s,”  replied  Mid- 
dlemas. “ His  good  counsel  on  that  head  is  a reason  why 
I do  not  now  prosecute  him  to  the  gallows.” 

“ 1 judged  as  much,”  replied  Hartley  ; “ for  I heard 
him,  before  I left  Middlemas,  debating  the  point  with  Mr. 
Lawford  ; and  I recollect  perfectly,  that  he  stated  the 
law  to  be  such  as  you  now  lay  down.” 

“ And  what  said  Lawford  in  answer  ?”  demanded 
Middlemas. 

“ He  admitted,”  replied  Hartley,  “ that  in  circum- 
stances where  the  case  was  doubtful,  such  presumptions 
of  legitimacy  might  be  admitted.  But  he  said  they  were 
liable  to'  be  controlled  by  positive  and  precise  testimony, 
as,  for  instance,  the  evidence  of  the  mother  declaring  the 
illegitimacy  of  the  child.” 


THE  CANONGATE. 


127 


“ But  there  can  exist  none  such  in  my  case,”  said 
Middlemas  hastily,  and  with  marks  of  alarm. 

“ 1 will  not  deceive  you,  Mr.  Middlemas,  though  I fear 
I cannot  help  giving  you  pain.  1 had  yesterday  a long 
conference  with  your  mother,  Mrs.  YVitherington,  in  which 
she  acknowledged  you  as  her  son,  but  a son  born  before 
marriage.  This  express  declaration  will,  therefore,  put 
an  end  to  the  suppositions  on  which  you  ground  your 
hopes.  If  you  please  you  may  hear  the  contents  of  her 
declaration,  which  1 have  in  her  own  handwriting.” 

“ Confusion  ! is  the  cup  to  be  for  ever  dashed  from 
my  lips  V9  muttered  Richard  ; but  recovering  his  com- 
posure, by  exertion  of  the  self-command  of  which  he 
possessed  so  large  a portion,  he  desired  Hartley  to  pro- 
ceed with  his  communication.  Hartley  accordingly  pro- 
ceeded to  inform  him  of  the  particulars  preceding  his 
birth,  and  those  which  followed  after  it ; while  Middlemas, 
seated  on  a sea-chest,  listened  with  inimitable  composure 
to  a tale  which  went  to  root  up  the  flourishing  hopes 
of  wealth  which  he  had  lately  so  fondly  entertained. 

Zilia  Monqada  was  the  only  child  of  a Portuguese  Jew 
of  great  wealth,  who  had  come  to  London,  in  prosecution 
of  his  commerce.  Among  the  few  Christians  who  fre- 
quented his  house,  and  occasionally  his  table,  was  Richard 
Tresham,  a gentleman  of  a high  Northumbrian  family, 
deeply  engaged  in  the  service  of  Charles  Edward  during 
his  short  invasion,  and  though  holding  a commission  in  the 
Portuguese  service,  still  an  object  of  suspicion  to  the 
British  government,  on  account  of  his  well-known  cour- 
age and  Jacobitical  principles.  The  high-bred  elegance 
of  this  gentleman,  together  with  his  complete  acquaint- 
ance with  the  Portuguese  language  and  manners,  had  won 
the  intimacy  of  old  Monqada,  and,  alas  ! the  heart  of  the 
inexperienced  Zilia,  who,  beautiful  as  an  angel,  had  as 
little  knowledge  of  the  world  and  its  wickedness  as  the 
lamb  that  is  but  a week  old. 

Tresham  made  his  proposals  to  Mon^ada,  perhaps  in 
a manner  which  too  evidently  showed  that  he  conceived 
the  high-born  Christian  was  degrading  himself  in  asking 


128 


CHRONICLES  OE 


which  thus  passed  before  him  in  the  twilight.  He  no 
longer  strove  to  make  up  to  the  stranger,  but  contented 
himself  with  keeping  him  in  view,  under  the  superstition 
common  to  the  Highlanders,  that  you  ought  neither  to  in- 
trude yourself  on  such  supernatural  apparitions  as  you 
may  witness,  nor  avoid  their  presence,  but  leave  it  to 
themselves  to  withhold  or  extend  their  communication,  as 
their  power  may  permit,  or  the  purpose  of  their  commis- 
sion require. 

Upon  an  elevated  knoll  by  the  side  of  the  road,  just 
where  the  pathway  turned  down  to  Elspat’s  hut,  the 
stranger  made  a pause,  and  seemed  to  await  Hamish’s 
coming  up.  Hamish,  on  his  part,  seeing  it  was  necessa- 
ry he  should  pass  the  object  of  his  suspicion,  mustered 
up  his  courage,  and  approached  the  spot  where  the  stran- 
ger had  placed  himself ; who  first  pointed  to  Elspat’s  hut, 
and  made,  with  arm  and  head,  a gesture  prohibiting  Ha- 
mish to  approach  it,  then  stretched  his  hand  to  the  road 
which  led  to  the  southward,  with  a motion  which  seemed 
to  enjoin  his  instant  departure  in  that  direction.  In  a 
moment  afterwards  the  plaided  form  was  gone — Hamish 
did  not  exactly  say  vanished,  because  there  were  rocks 
and  stunted  trees  enough  to  have  concealed  him  ; but  it 
was  his  own  opinion  that  he  had  seen  the  spirit  of  Mac- 
Tavish  Mhor,  warning  him  to  commence  his  instant  jour- 
ney to  Dunbarton,  without  waiting  till  morning,  or  again 
visiting  his  mother’s  hut. 

In  fact,  so  many  accidents  might  arise  to  delay  his 
journey,  especially  where  there  were  many  ferries,  that  it 
became  his  settled  purpose,  though  he  could  not  depart 
without  bidding  his  mother  adieu,  that  he  neither  could 
nor  would  abide  longer  than  for  that  object ; and  that  the 
fir§t  glimpse  of  next  day’s  sun  should  see  him  many  miles 
advanced  towards  Dunbarton.  He  descended  the  path, 
therefore,  and  entering  the  cottage,  he  communicated,  in 
a hasty  and  troubled  voice,  which  indicated  mental  agita- 
tion, his  determination  to  take  his  instant  departure. 
Somewhat  to  his  surprise,  Elspat  appeared  not  to  combat 
his  purpose,  but  she  urged  him  to  take  some  refreshment 


TIIE  CANONCATE. 


J29 


ere  he  left  her  for  ever.  He  did  so  hastily,  and  in  silence, 
thinking  on  the  approaching  separation,  and  scarce  yet 
believing  it  would  lake  place  without  a final  struggle  with 
his  mother’s  fondness.  To  his  surprise,  she  filled  the 
quaigh  with  liquor  for  his  parting  cup. 

“ Go,”  she  said,  “ my  son,  since  such  is  thy  settled 
purpose  ; but  first  stand  once  more  on  thy  mother’s 
hearth,  the  flame  on  which  will  be  extinguished  long  ere 
thy  foot  shall  again  be  placed  there.” 

“ To  your  health,  mother  !”  said  Hamish,  “ and  may 
we  meet  again  in  happiness,  in  spite  of  your  ominous 
words.” 

“ It  were  better  not  to  part,”  said  his  mother,  watch- 
ing him  as  he  quaffed  the  liquor,  of  which  he  would  have 
held  it  ominous  to  have  left  a drop. 

“ And  now,”  she  said,  muttering  the  words  to  herself, 
“ go — if  thou  canst  go.” 

“ Mother,”  said  Hamish,  as  he  replaced  on  the  table 
the  empty  quaigh,  “ thy  drink  is  pleasant  to  the  taste,  but 
it  takes  away  the  strength  which  it  ought  to  give.” 

“ Such  is  its  first  effect,  my  son,”  replied  Elspat  ; 
“ but  lie  down  upon  that  soft  heather  couch,  shut  your 
eyes  but  for  a moment,  and,  in  the  sleep  of  an  hour,  you 
shall  have  more  refreshment  than  in  the  ordinary  repose 
of  three  whole  nights,  could  they  be  blended  into  one.” 
“ Mother,”  said  Hamish,  upon  whose  brain  the  potion 
was  now  taking  rapid  effect,  “ give  me  my  bonnet — I 
must  kiss  you  and  begone — yet  it  seems  as  if  my  feet 
were  nailed  to  the  floor.” 

“ Indeed,”  said  his  mother,  “ you  will  be  instantly 
well,  if  you  will  sit  down  for  half  an  hour — but  half  an 
hour  ; it  is  eight  hours  to  dawn,  and  dawn  were  time 
enough  for  your  father’s  son  to  begin  such  a journey.” 

“ I must  obey  you,  mother — I feel  I must,”  said  Ha- 
mish, inarticulately  ; “ but  call  me  when  the  moon  rises.” 
He  sat  down  on  the  bed — reclined  back,  and  almost 
instantly  was  fast  asleep.  With  the  throbbing  glee  of  one 
who  has  brought  to  an  end  a difficult  and  troublesome  en- 
terprize,  Elspat  proceeded  tenderly  to  arrange  the  plaid 


130 


CHRONICLES  OF 


of  the  unconscious  slumberer,  to  whom  her  extrava- 
gant affection  was  doomed  to  be  so  fatal,  expressing, 
while  busied  in  her  office,  her  delight,  in  tones  of  min- 
gled tenderness  and  triumph.  “Yes,”  she  said,  “ calf 
of  my  heart,  the  moon  shall  arise  and  set  to  thee,  and  so 
shall  the  sun  ; but  not  to  light  thee  from  the  land  of  thy 
fathers,  or  tempt  thee  to  serve  the  foreign  prince  or  the 
feudal  enemy  ! To  no  son  of  Dermid  shall  1 be  delivered, 
to  be  fed  like  a bondswoman  ; but  he  who  is  my  pleas- 
ure and  my  pride  shall  be  my  guard  and  my  protector. 
They  say  the  Highlands  are  changed  ; but  1 see  Ben 
Cruachan  rear  his  crest  as  high  as  ever  into  the  evening 
sky — no  one  hath  yet  herded  his  kine  on  the  depth  of 
Lochawe — and  yonder  oak  does  not  yet  bend  like  a wil- 
low. The  children  of  the  mountains  will  be  such  as  their 
fathers,  until  the  mountains  themselves  shall  be  levelled 
with  the  strath.  In  these  wild  forests,  which  used  to 
support  thousands  of  the  brave,  there  is  still  surely  sub- 
sistence and  refuge  left  for  one  aged  woman,  and  one 
gallant  youth,  of  the  ancient  race  and  the  ancient  man- 
ners.” 

While  the  misjudging  mother  thus  exalted  in  the  suc- 
cess of  her  stratagem,  we  may  mention  to  the  reader, 
that  it  was  founded  on  the  acquaintance  with  drugs  and 
simples,  which  Elspat,  accomplished  in  all  things  belong- 
ing to  the  wild  life  which  she  had  led,  possessed  in  an  un- 
common degree,  and  which  she  exercised  for  various  pur- 
poses. With  the  herbs,  which  she  knew  how  to  select  as 
well  as  how  to  distil,  she  could  relieve  more  diseases 
than  a regular  medical  person  could  easily  believe.  She 
applied  some  to  dye  the  bright  colours  of  the  tartan — 
from  others  she  compounded  draughts  of  various  powers, 
and  unhappily  possessed  the  secret  of  one  which  was 
strongly  soporific.  Upon  the  effects  of  this  last  concoc- 
tion, as  the  reader  doubtless  has  anticipated,  she  reckon- 
ed with  security  on  delaying  Hamish  beyond  the  period 
for  which  his  return  was  appointed  ; and  she  trusted  to 
his  horror  for  the  apprehended  punishment  to  which  he 


THE  CANONGATE. 


131 


was  thus  rendered  liable,  to  prevent  him  from  returning 
at  all. 

Sound  and  deep,  beyond  natural  rest,  was  the  sleep  of 
Hamish  MacTavish  on  that  eventful  evening,  but  not  such 
the  repose  of  bis  mother.  Scarce  did  she  close  her  eyes 
from  time  to  time,  but  she  awakened  again  with  a start, 
in  the  terror  that  her  son  had  arisen  and  departed  ; and 
it  was  only  on  approaching  his  couch,  and  hearing  his 
deep-drawn  and  regular  breathing,  that  she  reassured 
herself  of  the  security  of  the  repose  in  which  he  was 
plunged. 

Still,  dawning,  she  feared,  might  awaken  him,  notwith- 
standing the  unusual  strength  of  the  potion  with  which  she 
had  drugged  his  cup.  If  there  remained  a hope  of  mor- 
tal man  accomplishing  the  journey,  she  was  aware  that 
Hamish  would  attempt  it,  though  he  were  to  die  from 
fatigue  upon  the  road.  Animated  by  this  new  fear,  she 
studied  to  exclude  the  light,  by  stopping  all  the  crannies 
and  crevices  through  which,  rather  than  through  any  reg- 
ular entrance,  the  morning  beams  might  find  access  to 
her  miserable  dwelling  ; and  this  in  order  to  detain  amid 
its  wants  and  wretchedness  the  being,  on  whom,  if  the 
world  itself  had  been  at  her  disposal,  she  would  have 
joyfully  conferred  it. 

Her  pains  were  bestowed  unnecessarily.  The  sun  rose 
high  above  the  heavens,  and  not  the  fleetest  stag  in  Bread- 
albane,  were  the  hounds  at  his  heels,  could  have  sped,  to 
save  his  life,  so  fast  as  would  have  been  necessary  to 
keep  Hamish’s  appointment.  Her  purpose  was  fully  at- 
tained— her  son’s  return  within  the  period  assigned  was 
impossible.  She  deemed  it  equally  impossible,  that  he 
would  ever  dream  of  returning,  standing,  as  he  must  now 
do,  in  the  danger  of  an  infamous  punishment.  By  de- 
grees, and  at  different  times,  she  had  gained  from  him  a 
full  acquaintance  with  the  predicament  in  which  he  would 
be  placed  by  failing  to  appear  on  the  day  appointed,  and 
the  very  small  hope  he  could  entertain  of  being  treated 
with  lenity. 


132 


CHRONICLES  OF 


It  is  well  known,  that  the  great  and  wise  Earl  of  Chat- 
ham prided  himself  on  the  scheme,  by  which  he  drew  to- 
gether for  defence  of  the  colonies  those  hardy  Highland- 
ers, who,  until  his  time,  had  been  the  objects  of  doubt, 
fear,  and  suspicion,  on  the  part  of  each  successive  admin- 
istration. But  some  obstacles  occurred,  from  the  peculiar 
habits  and  temper  of  this  people,  to  the  execution  of  his 
patriotic  project.  By  nature  and  habit,  every  Highlander 
was  accustomed  to  the  use  of  arms,  but  at  the  same  time 
totally  unaccustomed  to,  and  impatient  of,  the  restraints 
imposed  by  discipline  upon  regular  troops.  They  were  a 
species  of  militia,  who  had  no  conception  of  a camp  as 
their  only  home.  If  a battle  was  lost,  they  dispersed  to 
save  themselves,  and  look  out  for  the  safety  of  their  fam- 
ilies ; if  won,  they  went  back  to  their  glens  to  hoard  up 
their  booty,  and  attend  to  their  cattle  and  their  farms. 
This  privilege  of  going  and  coming  at  their  pleasure,  they 
would  not  be  deprived  of  even  by  their  Chiefs,  whose  au- 
thority was  in  most  other  respects  so  despotic.  It  follow- 
ed as  a matter  of  course,  that  the  new-levied  Highland 
recruits  could  scarce  be  made  to  comprehend  the  nature  of 
a military  engagement,  which  compelled  a man  to  serve 
in  the  army  longer  than  he  pleased  ; and  perhaps,  in 
many  instances  sufficient  care  was  not  taken  at  enlisting  to 
explain  to  them  the  permanency  of  the  engagement  which 
they  came  under,  lest  such  a disclosure  should  induce 
them  to  change  their  mind.  Desertions  were  therefore 
become  numerous  from  the  newly-raised  regiment,  and 
the  veteran  General  who  commanded  at  Dunbarton,  saw 
no  better  way  of  checking  them  than  by  causing  an  unu- 
sually severe  example  to  be  made  of  a deserter  from  an 
English  corps.  The  young  Highland  regiment  was  oblig- 
ed to  attend  upon  the  punishment,  which  struck  a people, 
peculiarly  jealous  of  personal  honour,  with  equal  horror 
and  disgust,  and  not  unnaturally  indisposed  some  of  them 
to  the  service.  The  old  General,  however,  who  had  been 
regularly  bred  in  the  German  wars,  stuck  to  his  own  opin- 
ion, and  gave  out  in  orders  that  the  first  Highlander  who 
might  either  desert,  or  fail  to  appear  at  the  expiry  of  his 


THE  CANONGATE. 


133 


furlough,  should  be  brought  to  the  halberts,  and  punished 
like  the  culprit  whom  they  had  seen  in  that  condition. 

No  man  doubted  that  General  would  keep  his 

word  rigorously  whenever  severity  was  required,  and 
Elspat,  therefore,  knew  that  her  son,  when  he  perceived 
that  due  compliance  with  his  orders  was  impossible,  must 
at  the  same  time#consider  the  degrading  punishment  de- 
nounced against  his  defection  as  inevitable,  should  he  place 
himself  within  the  General’s  power. 

When  noon  was  well  passed,  new  apprehensions  came 
on  the  mind  of  the  lonely  woman.  Her  son  still  slept 
under  the  influence  of  the  draught  ; but  what  if,  being 
stronger  than  she  had  ever  known  it  administered,  his 
health  or  his  reason  should  be  affected  by  its  potency  ? 
For  the  first  time,  likewise,  notwithstanding  her  high  ideas 
on  the  subject  of  parental  authority,  she  began  to  dread 
the  resentment  of  her  son,  whom  her  heart  told  her  she 
had  wronged.  Of  late,  she  had  observed  that  his  temper 
was  less  docile,  and  his  determinations,  especially  upon 
this  late  occasion  of  his  enlistment,  independently  formed, 
and  then  boldly  carried  through.  She  remembered  the 
the  stem  wilfulness  of  his  father  when  he  accounted  him- 
self ill-used,  and  began  to  dread  that  Hamish,  upon  find- 
ing the  deceit  she  had  put  upon  him,  might  resent  it  even 
to  the  extent  of  casting  her  off,  and  pursuing  his  own 
course  through  the  world  alone.  Such  were  the  alarming 
and  yet  the  reasonable  apprehensions  which  began  to 
crowd  upon  the  unfortunate  woman,  after  the  apparent 
success  of  her  ill-advised  stratagem. 

It  was  near  evening  when  Hamish  first  awoke,  and  then 
he  was  far  from  being  in  the  full  possession  either  of  his 
mental  or  bodily  powers.  From  his  vague  expressions 
and  disordered  pulse,  Elspat  at  first  experienced  much 
apprehension  ; but  she  used  such  expedients  as  her  med- 
ical knowledge  suggested  ; and  in  the  course  of  the  night, 
she  had  the  satisfaction  to  see  him  sink  once  more  into  a 
deep  sleep,  which  probably  carried  off  the  greater  part  of 
the  effects  of  the  drug,  for  about  sunrising  she  heard  him 
12  VOL.  I. 


134 


CHRONICLES  OF 


arise,  and  call  to  her  for  his  bonnet.  This  she  had  pur- 
posely removed,  from  a fear  that  he  might  awaken  and 
depart  in  the  night-time,  without  her  knowledge. 

“ My  bonnet — my  bonnet,”  cried  Hamisb,  “ it  is  time 
to  take  farewell.  Mother,  your  drink  was  too  strong — 
the  sun  is  up — but  with  the  next  morning  l will  still  see 
the  double  summit  of  the  ancient  Dun.  ♦My  bonnet — my 
bonnet  ! mother,  I must  he  instant  in  my  departure.” 
These  expressions  made  it  plain  that  poor  Hamish  was 
unconscious  that  two  nights  and  a day  had  passed  since 
he  had  drained  the  fatal  quaigh,  and  Elspat  had  now  to 
venture  on  what  she  felt  as  the  almost  perilous,  as  well  as 
painful  task,  of  explaining  her  machinations. 

“ Forgive  me,  iny  son,”  she  said,  approaching  Hamish, 
and  taking  him  by  the  hand  with  an  air  of  deferential 
awe,  which  perhaps  she  had  not  always  used  to  his  father, 
even  when  in  his  moody  fits. 

“ Forgive  you,  mother — for  what  9”  said  Hamish, 
laughing  ; “ for  giving  me  a dram  that  was  too  strong,  and 
which,  my  head  still  feels  this  morning,  or  for  hiding  my 
bonnet  to  keep  me  an  instant  longer  9 Nay,  do  you  for- 
give me.  Give  me  the  bonnet,  and  let  that  he  done  which 
now  must  be  done.  Give  me  my  bonnet,  or  I go  without 
it  ; surely  I am  not  to  be  delayed  by  so  trifling  a want  as 
that — 1,  who  have  gone  for  years  with  only  a strap  of 
deer’s  hide  to  tie  back  my  hair.  Trifle  not,  but  give  it 
me,  or  I must  eo  bareheaded,  since  to  stay  is  impos- 
sible.” 

“ My  son,”  said  Elspat,  keeping  fast  hold  of  his  hand, 
“ what  is  done  cannot  be  recalled  ; could  you  borrow  the 
wings  of  yonder  eagle,  you  would  arrive  at  the  Dun  too 
late  for  what  you  purpose, — too  soon  for  what  awaits  you 
there.  You  believe  you  see  the  sun  rising  for  the  first 
time  since  you  have  seen  him  set,  but  yesterday  beheld 
him  climb  Ben  Cruachan,  though  your  eyes  were  closed 
to  his  light.” 

Hamish  cast  upon  his  mother  a wild  glance  of  extreme 
terror,  then  instantly  recovering  himself,  said — “ I am  no 
child  to  be  cheated  out  of  my  purpose  by  such  tricks  as 


THE  CANONGATE. 


135 


these — Farewell,  mother,  each  moment  is  worth  a life- 
time.” 

“ Stay,”  she  said,  “ my  dear — my  deceived  son  ! rush 
not  on  infamy  and  ruin — Yonder  1 see  the  priest  upon  the 
high-road  on  his  white  horse — ask  him  the*  day  of  the 
month  and  week — let  him  decide  between  us.” 

With  the  speed  of  an  eagle,  Hamish  darted  up  the  ac- 
clivity, and  stood  by  the  minister  of  Glenorquhy,  who 
was  pacing  out  thus  early  to  administer  consolation  to  a 
distressed  family  near  Buna  we. 

The  good  man  was  somewhat  startled  to  behold  an 
armed  Highlander,  then  so  unusual  a sight,  and  apparently 
much  agitated,  stop  his  horse  by  the  bridle,  and  ask  him 
with  a faltering  voice  the  day  of  the  week  and  month. 
“ Had  you  been  where  you  should  have  been  yesterday, 
young  man,”  replied  the  clergyman,  “ you  would  have 
known  that  it  was  God’s  Sabbath  ; and  that  this  is  Mon- 
day, the  second  day  of  the  week,  and  twenty-first  of  the 
month.” 

“ And  this  is  true  9”  said  Hamish. 

“ As  true,”  answered  the  surprised  minister,  “ as  that 
I yesterday  preached  the  word  of  God  to  this  parish. — 
What  ails  you,  young  man  1 — are  you  sick  9 — are  you 
in  your  right  mind  *?” 

Hamish  made  no  answer,  only  repeated  to  himself  the 
first  expression  of  the  clergyman — “ Had  you  been  where 
you  should  have  been  yesterday  and  so  saying,  he  let 
go  the  bridle,  turned  from  the  road,  and  descended  the 
path  towards  the  hut,  with  the  look  and  pace  of  one  w7ho 
was  going  to  execution.  The  minister  looked  after  him 
with  surprise  ; but  although  he  knew  the  inhabitant  of 
the  hovel,  the  character  of  Elspat  had  not  invited  him  to 
open  any  communication  with  her,  because  she  was  gen- 
erally reputed  a Papist,  or  rather  one  indifferent  to  all 
religion,  except  some  superstitious  observances  which  had 
been  handed  down  from  her  parents.  On  Hamish  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Tyrie  had  bestowed  instructions  when  he 
was  occasionally  thrown  in  his  wray,  and  if  the  seed  fell 
among  the  brambles  and  thorns  of  a wild  and  uncultivat- 


136 


CHRONICLES  OF 


ed  disposition,  it  had  not  yet  been  entirely  checked  or 
destroyed.  There  was  something  so  ghastly  in  the  pres- 
ent expression  of  the  youth’s  features,  that  the  good  man 
was  tempted  to  go  down  to  the  hovel,  and  inquire  whether 
any  distress*  had  befallen  the  inhabitants,  in  which  his 
presence  might  be  consoling,  and  his  ministry  useful. 
Unhappily  he  did  not  persevere  in  this  resolution,  which 
might  have  saved  a great  misfortune,  as  he  would  have 
probably  become  a mediator  for  the  unfortunate  young 
man  ; but  recollection  of  the  wild  moods  of  such  High- 
landers as  had  been  educated  after  the  old  fashion  of  the 
country,  prevented  his  interesting  himself  in  the  widow 
and  son  of  the  far-dreaded  robber  MacTavish  Mhor  ; 
and  he  thus  missed  an  opportunity,  which  he  afterwards 
sorely  repented,  of  doing  much  good. 

When  Hamish  MacTavish  entered  his  mother’s  hut,  it 
was  only  to  throw  himself  on  the  bed  he  had  left,  and 
exclaiming,  “ Undone,  undone  !”  to  give  vent,  in  cries 
of  grief  and  anger,  to  his  deep  sense  of  the  deceit  which 
had  been  practised  on  him,  and  of  the  cruel  predicament 
to  which  he  was  reduced. 

Elspat  was  prepared  for  the  first  explosion  of  her  son’s 
passion,  and  said  to  herself,  “ It  is  but  the  mountain  tor- 
rent, swelled  by  the  thundershower.  Let  us  sit  and  rest 
us  by  the  bank  ; for  all  its  present  tumult,  the  time  will 
soon  come  when  we  may  pass  it  dry-shod.”  She  suffer- 
ed his  complaints  and  bis  reproaches,  which  were,  even 
in  the  midst  of  his  agony,  respectful  and  affectionate,  to 
die  away  without  returning  any  answer  ; and  when,  at 
length,  having  exhausted  all  the  exclamations  of  sorrow 
which  his  language,  copious  in  expressing  the  feelings  of 
the  heart,  affords  to  the  sufferer,  he  sunk  into  a gloomy 
silence,  she  suffered  the  interval  to  continue  near  an  hour 
ere  she  approached  her  son’s  couch. 

“ And  now,”  she  said  at  length,  with  a voice  in  which 
the  authority  of  the  mother  was  qualified  by  her  tender- 
ness, “ have  you  exhausted  your  idle  sorrows,  and  are 
you  able  to  place  what  you  have  gained  against  what  you 
have  lost  9 Is  the  false  son  of  Dermid  your  brother,  or 


TIIE  CANOJYGATE. 


137 


the  father  of  your  tribe,  that  you  weep  because  you  can- 
not bind  yourself  to  his  belt,  and  become  one  of  those 
who  must  do  his  bidding  9 Could  you  find  in  yonder  dis- 
tant country  the  lakes  and  the  mountains  that  you  leave 
behind  you  here  ? Can  you  hunt  the  deer  of  Breadalbane 
in  the  forests  of  America,  or  will  the  ocean  afford  you  the 
silver-scaled  salmon  of  the  Awe  9 Consider,  then,  what 
is  your  loss,  and,  like  a wise  man,  set  it  against  what  you 
have  won.” 

“ 1 have  lost  all,  mother,”  replied  Hamish,  “ since  I 
have  broken  my  word,  and  lost  my  honour.  I might  tell 
my  tale,  but  who,  oh,  who  would  believe  me  9”  The 
unfortunate  young  man  again  clasped  his  hands  together, 
and,  pressing  them  to  his  forehead,  hid  his  face  upon 
the  bed. 

Elspat  was  now  really  alarmed,  and  perhaps  wished 
the  fatal  deceit  had  been  left  unattempted.  She  had  no 
hope  or  refuge  saving  in  the  eloquence  of  persuasion,  of 
which  she  possessed  no  small  share,  though  her  total  ig- 
norance of  the  world  as  it  actually  existed,  rendered  its 
energy  unavailing.  She  urged  her  son,  by  every  tender 
epithet  which  a parent  could  bestow,  to  take  care  for  his 
own  safety. 

“ Leave  me,”  she  said,  “ to  baffle  your  pursuers.  I 
will  save  your  life — I will  save  your  honour — I will  tell 
them  that  my  fair-haired  Hamish  fell  from  the  Corrie  dhu 
(black  precipice)  into  the  gulf,  of  which  human  eye  never 
beheld  the  bottom.  I will  tell  them  this,  and  1 will  fling 
your  plaid  on  the  thorns  which  grow  on  the  brink  of  the 
precipice,  that  they  may  believe  my  words.  They  will 
believe,  and  they  will  return  to  the  Dun  of  the  double- 
crest ; for  though  the  Saxon  drum  can  call  the  living  to  die, 
it  cannot  recall  the  dead  to  their  slavish  standard.  Then 
will  we  travel  together  far  northward  to  the  salt  lakes  of 
Kintail,  and  place  glens  and  mountains  betwixt  us  and 
the  sons  of  Dermid.  We  will  visit  the  shores  of  the  dark 
lake,  and  my  kinsmen — (for  was  not  my  mother  of  the 
children  of  Kenneth,  and  will  thev  not  remember  us  with 
12*  VQU  I.  ' 


138 


CHRONICLES  OF 


the  old  love  9) — my  kinsmen  will  receive  us  with  the  af- 
fection of  the  olden  time,  which  lives  in  those  distant 
glens,  where  the  Gael  still  dwell  in  their  nobleness,  un- 
mingled with  the  churl  Saxons,  or  with  the  base  brood 
that  are  their  tools  and  their  slaves.” 

The  energy  of  the  language,  somewhat  allied  to  hyper- 
bole, even  in  its  most  ordinary  expressions,  now  seemed 
almost  too  weak  to  afford  Elspat  the  means  of  bringing 
out  the  splendid  picture  which  she  presented  to  her  son 
of  the  land  in  which  she  proposed  to  him  to  take  refuge. 
Yet  the  colours  were  few  with  which  she  could  paint  her 
Highland  paradise.  “ The  hills,”  she  said,  “ were  higher 
and  more  magnificent  than  those  of  Breadalbane — Ben- 
Cruachan  was  but  a dwarf  to  Skooroora.  The  lakes 
were  broader  and  larger,  and  abounded  not  only  with  fish, 
but  with  the  enchanted  and  amphibious  animal  which 
gives  oil  to  the  lamp.*  The  deer  were  larger  and  more 
numerous — the  white-tusked  boar,  the  chase  of  which  the 
brave  loved  best,  was  yet  to  be  roused  in  these  western 
solitudes— the  men  were  nobler,  wiser,  and  stronger,  than 
the  degenerate  brood  who  lived  under  the  Saxon  banner. 
The  daughters  of  the  land  were  beautiful,  with  blue  eyes 
and  fair  hair,  and  bosoms  of  snow,  and  out  of  these  she 
would  choose  a wife  for  Hamish,  of  blameless  descent, 
spotless  fame,  fixed  and  true  affection,  who  should  be  in 
their  summer  bothy  as  a beam  of  the  sun,  and  in  their 
winter  abode  as  the  warmth  of  the  needful  fire.” 

Such  were  the  topics  with  which  Elspat  strove  to 
soothe  the  despair  of  her  son,  and  to  determine  him,  if 
possible,  to  leave  the  fatal  spot,  on  which  he  seemed  re- 
solved to  linger.  The  style  of  her  rhetoric  was  poetical, 
but  in  other  respects  resembled  that  which,  like  other  fond 
mothers,  she  had  lavished  on  Hamish,  while  a child  or  a 
boy,  in  order  to  gain  his  consent  to  do  something  he  had 
no  mind  to  ; and  she  spoke  louder,  quicker,  and  more 
earnestly,  in  proportion  as  she  began  to  despair  of  her 
words  carrying  conviction. 


* The  seals  are  considered  by  the  Highlanders  as  enchanted  princes. 


THE  CANONGATE. 


139 


On  the  mind  of  Hamish  her  eloquence  made  no  im- 
pression. He  knew  far  better  than  she  did  the  actual 
situation  of  the  country,  and  was  sensible,  that,  though  it 
might  be  possible  to  hide  himself  as  a fugitive  among  more 
distant  mountains,  there  was  now  no  corner  in  the  High- 
lands in  which  his  father’s  profession  could  be  practised, 
even  if  he  had  not  adopted,  from  the  improved  ideas  of 
the  time  when  he  lived,  the  opinion  that  the  trade  of  the 
cateran  was  no  longer  the  road  to  honour  and  distinction. 
Her  words  were  therefore  poured  into  regardless  ears, 
and  she  exhausted  herself  in  vain  in  the  attempt  to  paint 
the  regions  of  her  mother’s  kinsmen  in  such  terms  as 
might  tempt  Hamish  to  accompany  her  thither.  She 
spoke  for  hours,  but  she  spoke  in  vain.  She  could  extort 
no  answer,  save  groans,  and  sighs,  and  ejaculations,  ex- 
pressing the  extremity  of  despair. 

Ai  length,  starting  on  her  feet,  and  changing  the  mo- 
notonous tone  in  which  she  had  chanted,  as  it  were,  the 
praises  of  the  province  of  refuge,  into  the  short,  stern 
language  of  eager  passion — “ f am  a fool,”  she  said,  “ to 
spend  my  words  upon  an  idle,  poor-spirited  unintelligent 
boy,  who  crouches  like  a hound  to  the  lash.  Wait  here, 
and  receive  your  task-masters,  and  abide  your  chastise- 
ment at  their  hands  ; but  do  not  think  your  mother’s  eyes 
will  behold  it.  I could  not  see  it  and  live.  My  eyes 
have  looked  often  upon  death,  but  never  upon  dishonour. 
Farewell,  Hamish  ! — We  never  meet  again.” 

She  dashed  from  the  hut  like  a lapwing,  and  perhaps 
for  the  moment  actually  entertained  the  purpose  which 
she  expressed,  of  parting  with  her  son  for  ever.  She 
would  have  been  a fearful  sight  that  evening  to  those  who 
might  have  met  her  wandering  through  the  wilderness  like 
a restless  spirit,  and  speaking  to  herself  in  language  which 
will  endure  no  translation.  She  rambled  for  hours,  seek- 
ing rather  than  shunning  the  most  dangerous  paths.  The 
precarious  track  through  the  morass,  the  dizzy  path  along 
the  edge  of  the  precipice,  or  by  the  banks  of  the  gulfing 
river,  were  the  roads  which,  far  from  avoiding,  she  sought 
with  eagerness,  and  traversed  with  reckless  haste.  But 


140 


CHRONICLES  OF 


the  courage  arising  from  despair  was  the  means  of  saving 
the  life,  which,  (though  deliberate  suicide  was  rarely 
practised  in  the  Highlands,)  she  was  perhaps  desirous  of 
terminating.  Her  step  on  the  verge  of  the  precipice  was 
firm  as  that  of  the  wild  goat.  Her  eye,  in  that  state  of 
excitation,  was  so  keen  as  to  discern,  even  amid  darkness, 
the  perils  which  noon  would  not  have  enabled  a stranger 
to  avoid. 

Elspat’s  course  was  not  directly  forward,  else  she  had 
soon  been  far  from  the  bothy  in  which  she  had  left  her 
son.  It  was  circuitous,  for  that  hut  was  the  centre  to 
which  her  heart-strings  were  chained,  and  though  she 
wandered  around  it,  she  felt  it  impossible  to  leave  the  vi- 
cinity. With  the  first  beams  of  morning,  she  returned  to 
the  hut.  Awhile  she  paused  at  the  wattled  door,  as  if 
ashamed  that  lingering  fondness  should  have  brought  her 
back  to  the  spot  which  she  had  left  with  the  purpose  of 
never  returning  ; but  there  was  yet  more  of  fear  and  anx- 
iety in  her  hesitation — of  anxiety,  lest  her  fair-haired  son 
had  suffered  from  the  effects  of  her  potion: — of  fear,  lest 
his  enemies  had  come  upon  him  in  the  night.  She  open- 
ed the  door  of  the  hut  gently,  and  entered  with  noiseless 
step.  Exhausted  with  his  sorrow  and  anxiety,  and  not 
entirely  relieved  perhaps  from  the  influence  of  the  power- 
ful opiate,  Hamish  Bean  again  slept  the  stern  sound  sleep, 
by  which  the  Indians  are  said  to  be  overcome  during  the 
interval  of  their  torments.  His  mother  was  scarcely  sure 
that  she  actually  discerned  his  form  on  the  bed,  scarce 
certain  that  her  ear  caught  the  sound  of  his  breathing. 
With  a throbbing  heart,  Eispat  went  to  the  fire-place  in 
the  centre  of  the  hut,  where  slumbered,  covered  with  a 
piece  of  turf,  the  glimmering  embers  of  the  fire,  never  ex- 
tinguished on  a Scottish  hearth  until  the  indwellers  leave 
the  mansion  for  ever. 

“ Feeble  greishogh,”*  she  said,  as  she  lighted,  by  the 
help  of  a match,  a splinter  of  bog  pine  which  was  to  serve 
the  place  of  a candle  ; “ weak  greishogh,  soon  shalt 


Greishogh,  a glowing  ember. 


THE  CANONGATE. 


141 


thou  be  put  out  for  ever,  and  may  Heaven  grant  that  the 
life  of  Elspat  MacTavish  have  no  longer  duration  than 
thine  !” 

While  she  spoke  she  raised  the  blazing  light  towards 
the  bed,  on  which  still  lay  the  prostrate  limbs  of  her  son, 
in  a posture  that  left  it  doubtful  whether  he  slept  or  swoon- 
ed. As  she  advanced  towards  him,  the  light  (lashed  upon 
his  eyes — he  started  up  in  an  instant,  made  a stride  for- 
ward with  his  naked  dirk  in  his  hand,  like  a man  armed 
to  meet  a mortal  enemy,  and  exclaimed,  “ Stand  off! 
— on  thy  life,  stand  off  !” 

“ It  is  the  word  and  the  action  of  my  husband,”  an- 
swered Elspat ; “ and  I know  by  his  speech  and  his  step 
the  son  of  MacTavish  Mhor.” 

“Mother,”  said  Hamish,  relapsing  from  his  tone  of 
desperate  firmness  into  one  of  melancholy  expostulation  ; 
“ oh,  dearest  mother,  wherefore  have  you  returned 
hither  V9 

“ Ask  why  the  hind  comes  back  to  the  fawn,”  said 
Elspat  ; “ why  the  cat  of  the  mountain  returns  to  her 
lodge  and  her  young.  Know  you,  Hamish,  that  the  heart 
of  the  mother  only  lives  in  the  bosom  of  the  child.” 

“ Then  will  it  soon  cease  to  throb,”  said  Hamish, 
“ unless  it  can  beat  within  a bosom  that  lies  beneath  the 
turf. — Mother,  do  not  blame  me  ; if  I w^eep,  it  is  not  for 
myself  but  for  you,  for  my  sufferings  will  soon  be  over  ; 

but  yours O,  who  but  Heaven  shall  set  a boundary 

to  them  !” 

Elspat  shuddered  and  stepped  backward,  but  almost 
instantly  resumed  her  firm  and  upright  position,  and  her 
dauntless  bearing. 

“ I thought  thou  wTert  a man  but  even  now,”  she  said, 
“ and  thou  art  again  a child.  Hearken  to  me  yet,  and 
let  us  leave  this  place  together.  Have  I done  thee  wrong 
or  injury  if  so,  yet  do  not  avenge  it  so  cruelly — See, 
Elspat  MacTavish,  who  never  kneeled  before  even  to  a 
priest,  falls  prostrate  before  her  own  son,  and  craves  his 
forgiveness.”  And  at  once  she  threw  herself  on  her 
knees  before  the  young  man,  seized  on  his  hand,  and 


142 


CHRONICLES  OF 


kissing  it  an  hundred  times,  repeated  as  often  in  heart- 
breaking accents,  the  most  earnest  entreaties  for  forgive- 
ness. “ Pardon,”  she  exclaimed,  “ pardon,  for  the  sake 
of  your  father’s  ashes — pardon  for  the  sake  of  the  pain 
with  which  1 bore  thee,  the  care  with  which  I nurtured 
thee  ! — Hear  it,  Heaven,  and  behold  it  Earth — the  moth- 
er asks  pardon  of  her  child,  and  she  is  refused!” 

It  was  in  vain  that  Hamish  endeavoured  to  stem  this 
tide  of  passion,  by  assuring  his  mother,  with  the  most  sol- 
emn asseverations,  that  he  forgave  entirely  the  fatal  de- 
ceit which  she  had  practised  upon  him. 

“ Empty  words,”  she  said  ; “ idle  protestations,  which 
are  but  used  to  hide  the  obduracy  of  your  resentment. 
Would  you  have  me  believe  you,  then  leave  the  hut  this 
instant,  and  retire  from  a country  which  every  hour  ren- 
ders more  dangerous. — Do  this,  and  I may  think  you  have 
forgiven  me— refuse  it,  and  again  I call  on  moon  and  stars, 
heaven  and  earth,  to  witness  the  unrelenting  resentment 
with  which  you  prosecute  your  mother  for  a fault,  which, 
if  it  be  one,  arose  out  of  love  to  you.” 

“ Mother,”  said  Hamish,  “ on  this  subject  you  move 
me  not.  1 will  fly  before  no  man.  If  Barcaldine  should 
send  every  Gael  that  is  under  his  banner,  here,  and  in 
this  place,  will  I abide  them  ; and  when  you  bid  me  fly, 
you  may  as  well  command  yonder  mountain  to  be  loos- 
ened from  its  foundations.  Had  I been  sure  of  the  road 
by  which  they  are  coming  hither,  1 had  spared  them  the 
pains  of  seeking  me  ; but  I might  go  by  the  mountain, 
while  they  perchance  came  by  the  lake.  Here  I will 
abide  my  fate  ; nor  is  there  in  Scotland  a voice  of  power 
enough  to  bid  me  stir  from  hence,  and  be  obeyed.” 

“ Here,  then,  I also  stay,”  said  Elspat,  rising  up  and 
speaking  with  assumed  composure.  “ I have  seen  my 
husband’s  death — my  eyelids  shall  not  grieve  to  look  on 
the  fall  of  my  son.  But  MacTavish  Mhor  died  as  be- 
came the  brave,  with  his  good  sword  in  his  right  hand  ; 
my  son  will  perish  like  the  bullock  that  is  driven  to  the 
shambles  by  the  Saxon  owner  who  has  bought  him  for  a 
price,” 


THE  CANONGATE. 


143 


“ Mother,”  said  the  unhappy  young  man,  “ you  have 
taken  my  life  ; to  that  you  have  a right,  for  you  gave  it ; 
but  touci)  not  my  honour  ! It  came  to  me  from  a brave 
strain  of  ancestors,  and  should  be  sullied  neither  by  man’s 
deed  nor  woman’s  speech.  What  I shall  do,  perhaps  I 
myself  yet  know  not  ; but  tempt  me  no  farther  by  re- 
proachful words  ; you  have  already  made  wounds  more 
than  you  can  ever  heal.” 

“ It  is  well,  my  son,”  said  Elspat,  in  reply.  “ Expect 
neither  farther  complaint  nor  remonstrance  from  me  ; but 
let  us  be  silent,  and  wait  the  chance  which  Heaven  shall 
send  us.” 

The  sun  arose  on  the  next  morning,  and  found  the 
bothy  silent  as  the  grave.  The  mother  and  son  had 
arisen,  and  were  engaged  each  in  their  separate  task — 
Hamish  in  preparing  and  cleaning  his  arms  with  the 
greatest  accuracy,  but  with  an  air  of  deep  dejection. 
Elspat,  more  restless  in  her  agony  of  spirit,  employed 
herself  in  making  ready  the  food  which  the  distress  of 
yesterday  had  induced  them  both  to  dispense  with  for  an 
unusual  number  of  hours.  She  placed  it  on  the  board 
before  her  son  so  soon  as  it  was  prepared,  with  the  words 
of  a Gaelic  poet,  “ Without  daily  food,  the  husbandman’s 
plough  share  stands  still  in  the  furrow;  without  daily  food, 
the  sword  of  the  warrior  is  too  heavy  for  his  hand.  Our 
bodies  are  our  slaves,  yet  they  must  be  fed  if  we  would 
have  their  service.  So  spake  in  ancient  days  the  Blind 
Bard  to  the  warriors  of  Fion.” 

The  young  man  made  no  reply,  but  he  fed  on  what 
was  placed  before  him,  as  if  to  gather  strength  for  the 
scene  which  he  was  to  undergo.  When  his  mother  saw 
that  he  had  eaten  what  sufficed  him,  she  again  filled  the 
fatal  quaigh,  and  proffered  it  as  the  conclusion  of  the 
repast.  But  he  started  aside  with  a convulsive  gesture, 
expressive  at  once  of  fear  and  abhorrence. 

“ Nay,  my  son,”  she  said,  “ this  time,  surely,  thou 
hast  no  cause  of  fear.” 

“ Urge  me  not,  mother,”  answered  Hamish  ; “ or  put 
the  leprous  toad  into  a flagon,  and  I will  drink  it ; but  from 


144 


CHRONICLES  OF 


that  accursed  cup,  and  of  that  mind-destroying  potion, 
never  will  I taste  more  !” 

“ At  your  pleasure,  my  son,”  said  Elspat,  haughtily, 
and  began,  with  much  apparent  assiduity,  the  various  do- 
mestic tasks  which  had  been  interrupted  during  the  pre- 
ceding day.  Whatever  was  at  her  heart,  all  anxiety 
seemed  banished  from  her  looks  and  demeanour.  It  w'as 
but  from  an  over  activity  of  bustling  exertion  that  it  might 
have  been  perceived,  by  a close  observer,  that  her  actions 
were  spurred  by  some  internal  cause  of  painful  excite- 
ment ; and  such  a spectator,  too,  might  also  have  observed 
how  often  she  broke  off  the  snatches  of  songs  or  tunes 
which  she  hummed,  apparently  without  knowing  what  she 
was  doing,  in  order  to  cast  a hasty  glance  from  the  door 
of  the  hut.  Whatever  might  be  in  the  mind  of  Hamish, 
his  demeanour  was  directly  the  reverse  of  that  adopted 
by  his  mother.  Having  finished  the  task  of  cleaning  and 
preparing  his  arms,  which  he  arranged  within  the  hut, 
he  sat  himself  down  before  the  door  of  the  bothy,  and 
watched  the  opposite  hill,  like  the  fixed  sentinel  who  ex- 
pects the  approach  of  an  enemy.  Noon  found  him  in 
the  same  unchanged  posture,  and  it  was  an  hour  after 
that  period,  when  his  mother,  standing  beside  him,  laid  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  said,  in  a tone  indifferent,  as  if 
she  had  been  talking  of  some  friendly  visit,  “ When  dost 
thou  expect  them  V9 

“ They  cannot  be  here  till  the  shadows  fall  long  to  the 
eastward,”  replied  Hamish  ; “ that  is,  even  supposing 
the  nearest  party,  commanded  by  Sergeant  Allan  Breack 
Cameron,  has  been  commanded  hither  by  express  from 
Dunbarton,  as  it  is  most  likely  they  will.” 

“ Then  enter  beneath  your  mother’s  roof  once  more  ; 
partake  the  last  time  of  the  fo«d  which  she  has  prepared  ; 
after  this  let  them  come,  and  thou  shalt  see  if  thy  mother 
is  an  useless  encumbrance  in  the  day  of  strife.  Thy  hand, 
practised  as  it  is,  cannot  fire  these  arms  so  fast  as  I can 
load  them  ; nay,  if  it  is  necessary,  I do  not  myself  fear 
the  flash  or  the  report,  and  my  aim  has  been  held  fatal.” 


THE  CANONGATE. 


145 


“ In  the  name  of  Heaven,  mother,  meddle  not  with 
this  matter  !”  said  Hamish.  “ Allan  Breack  is  a wise 
man  and  a kind  one,  and  comes  of  a good  stem.  It  may 
be  he  can  promise  for  our  officers,  that  they  will  touch 
me  with  no  infamous  punishment ; and  if  they  offer  me 
confinement  in  the  dungeon,  or  death  by  the  musket,  to 
that  I may  not  object.” 

“ Alas,  and  wilt  thou  trust  to  their  word,  my  foolish 
child  ? Remember  the  race  of  Dermid  were  ever  fair 
and  false,  and  no  sooner  shall  they  have  gyves  on  thy 
hands,  than  they  will  strip  thy  shoulders  for  the  scourge.” 

“ Save  your  advice,  mother,”  said  Hamish,  sternly  ; 
“ for  me,  my  mind  is  made  up.” 

But  though  he  spoke  thus,  to  escape  the  almost  perse- 
cuting urgency  of  his  mother,  Hamish  would  have  found 
it,  at  that  moment,  impossible  to  say  upon  what  course  of 
conduct  he  had  thus  fixed.  On  one  point  alone  he  was 
determined,  namely,  to  abide  his  destiny,  be  what  it  might, 
and  not  to  add  to  the  breach  of  his  word,  of  which  he 
had  been  involuntarily  rendered  guilty,  by  attempting  to 
escape  from  punishment.  This  act  of  self-devotion  he 
conceived  to  be  due  to  his  own  honour,  and  that  of  his 
countrymen.  Which  of  his  comrades  would  in  future  be 
trusted,  if  he  should  be  considered  as  having  broken  his 
word,  and  betrayed  the  confidence  of  his  officers  ? and 
whom  but  Hamish  Bean  MacTavish  would  the  Gael  ac- 
cuse, for  having  verified  and  confirmed  the  suspicions 
which  the  Saxon  General  was  well  known  to  entertain 
against  the  good  faith  of  the  Highlanders  9 He  was,  there- 
fore, bent  firmly  to  abide  his  fate.  But  whether  his  inten- 
tion was  to  yield  himself  peaceably  into  the  hands  of  the 
party  who  should  come  to  apprehend  him,  or  whether  he 
purposed  by  a show  of  resistance  to  provoke  them  to  kill 
him  on  the  spot,  was  a question  which  he  could  not  him- 
self have  answered  His  desire  to  see  Barcaldine,  and 
explain  the  cause  of  his  absence  at  the  appointed  time, 
urged  him  to  the  one  course  ; his  fear  of  the  degrading 
punishment,  and  of  his  mother’s  bitter  upbraidings,  strong- 
13  VOL.  I. 


146 


CHRONICLES  OF 


ly  instigated  the  latter  and  the  more  dangerous  purpose. 
He  left  it  to  chance  to  decide  when  the  crisis  should 
arrive  ; nor  did  he  tarry  long  in  expectation  of  the  catas- 
trophe. 

Evening  approached,  the  gigantic  shadows  of  the  moun- 
tains streamed  in  darkness  towards  the  east,  while  their 
western  .peaks  were  still  glowing  with  crimson  and  gold. 
The  road  which  winds  round  Ben  Cruachan  was  fully 
visible  from  the  door  of  the  bothy,  when  a party  of  five 
Highland  soldiers,  whose  arms  glanced  in  the  sun,  wheel- 
ed suddenly  into  sight  from  the  most  distant  extremity, 
where  the  highway  is  hidden  behind  the  mountain.  One 
of  the  party  walked  a little  before  the  other  four,  who 
marched  regularly  and  in  files,  according  to  the  rules  of 
military  discipline.  There  v/as  no  dispute,  from  the  fire- 
locks which  they  carried,  and  the  plaids  and  bonnets 
which  they  wore,  that  they  were  a party  of  Hamish’s 
regiment,  under  a non-commissioned  officer ; and  there 
could  be  as  little  doubt  of  the  purpose  of  their  appearance 
on  the  banks  of  Loch  Awe. 

“ They  come  briskly  forward — ” said  the  widow7  of 
MacTavjsh  Mhor, — “ I wonder  how  fast  or  how  slow 
some  of  them  will  return  again.  But  they  are  five,  and 
it  is  too  much  odds  for  a fair  field.  Step  back  within  the 
hut,  my  son,  and  shoot  from  the  loophole  beside  the  door. 
Two  you  may  bring  down  ere  they  quit  the  high  road  for 
the  footpath — there  will  remain  but  three  ; and  your  fa- 
ther, with  my  aid,  has  often  stood  against  that  number.” 

Harnish  Bean  took  the  gun  which  his  mother  offered, 
but  did  not  stir  from  the  door  of  the  hut.  He  was  soon 
visible  to  the  party  on  the  high  road,  as  was  evident  from 
their  increasing  their  pace  to  a run  ; the  files,  however, 
still  keeping  together  like  coupled  greyhounds,  and  ad- 
vancing with  great  rapidity.  In  far  less  time  than  would 
have  been  accomplished  by  men  less  accustomed  to  the 
mountains,  they  had  left  the  high  road,  traversed  the  nar- 
row path,  and  approached  within  pistol-shot  of  the  bothy, 
at  the  door  of  which  stood  Harnish,  fixed  like  a statue  of 
stone,  with  his  firelock  in  his  hand,  while  his  mother, 


THE  CANON  GATE. 


147 


plaaed  behind  him,  and  almost  driven  to  frenzy  by  the 
violence  of  her  passions,  reproached  him  in  the  strongest 
terms  which  despair  could  invent,  for  his  want  of  resolu- 
tion and  faintness  of  heart.  Her  words  increased  the 
hitter  gall  which  was  arising  in  the  young  man’s  own  heart, 
as  he  observed  the  unfriendly  speed  with  which  his  late 
comrades  were  eagerly  making  towards  him,  like  hounds 
towards  a stag  when  he  is  at  hay.  The  untamed  and 
angry  passions  which  he  inherited  from  father  and  moth- 
er, were  awakened  by  the  supposed  hostility  of  those  who 
pursued  him  ; and  the  restraint  under  which  these  pas- 
sions had  been  hitherto  held  by  his  sober  judgment,  be- 
gan gradually  to  give  way.  The  sergeant  now  called  to 
him,  44  Hamish  Bean  MaeTavish,  lay  down  your  arms 
and  surrender.” 

44  Do  you  stand,  Allan  Breack  Cameron,  and  command 
your  men  to  stand,  or  it  will  be  the  worse  for  us  all.” 

44  Halt,  men — ” said  the  sergeant,  but  continuing  him- 
self to  advance.  44  Hamish,  think  what  you  do,  and  give 
up  your  gun  ; you  may  spill  blood,  but  you  cannot  escape 
punishment.” 

44  The  scourge — the  scourge — my  son,  beware  the 
scourge,”  whispered  his  mother. 

44  Take  heed,  Allan  Breack,”  said  Hamish.  44  I would 
not  hurt  you  willingly, — but  1 will  not  be  taken  unless  you 
can  assure  me  against  the  Saxon  lash.” 

44  Fool  !”  answered  Cameron,  44  you  know  I cannot. 
Yet  I will  do  all  I can.  1 will  say  I met  you  on  your  re- 
turn, and  the  punishment  will  be  light — but  give  up  your 
musket — Come  on,  men.” 

Instantly  be  rushed  forward,  extending  his  arm  as  if  to 
push  aside  the  young  man’s  levelled  firelock.  Elspat 
exclaimed,  44  Now,  spare  not  your  father’s  blood  to  de- 
fend your  father’s  hearth  !”  Hamish  fired  his  piece,  and 
Cameron  dropped  dead. — All  these  things  happened,  it 
might  be  said,  in  the  same  moment  of  time.  The  soldiers 
rushed  forward  and  seized  Hamish,  who,  seeming  petri- 
fied with  what  he  had  done,  offered  not  the  least  resistance. 
Not  so  his  mother,  who,  seeing  the  men  about  to  put 


148 


CHRONICLES  OF 


handcuffs  on  her  son,  threw  herself  on  the  soldiers  with 
such  fury,  that  it  required  two  of  them  to  hold  her,  while 
the  rest  secured  the  prisoner. 

“ Are  you  not  an  accursed  creature,”  said  one  of  the 
men  to  Hamish,  “ to  have  slain  your  best  friend,  who  was 
contriving,  during  the  whole  march,  how  he  could  find 
some  way  of  getting  you  off  without  punishment  for  your 
desertion  V9 

“ Do  you  hear  that , mother  9”  said  Hamish,  turning 
himself  as  much  towards  her  as  his  bonds  would  permit 
— but  the  mother  heard  nothing,  and  saw  nothing.  She 
had  fainted  on  the  floor  of  her  hut.  Without  waiting  for 
her  recovery,  the  party  almost  immediately  began  their 
homeward  march  towards  Dunbarton,  leading  along  with 
them  their  prisoner.  They  thought  it  necessary,  how- 
ever, to  stay  for  a little  space  at  the  village  of  Dalmally, 
from  which  they  despatched  a party  of  the  inhabitants  to 
bring  away  the  body  of  their  unfortunate  leader,  while 
they  themselves  repaired  to  a magistrate  to  state  what  had 
happened,  and  require  his  instructions  as  to  the  farther 
course  to  be  pursued.  The  crime  being  of  a military 
character,  they  were  instructed  to  march  the  prisoner  to 
Dunbarton  without  delay. 

The  swoon  of  the  mother  of  Hamish  lasted  for  a length 
of  time  ; the  longer  perhaps  that  her  constitution,  strong 
as  it  was,  must  have  been  much  exhausted  by  her  previous 
agitation  of  three  days’  endurance.  She  was  roused  from 
her  stupor  at  length  by  female  voices,  which  cried  the 
coronach,  or  lament  for  the  dead,  with  clapping  of  hands 
and  loud  exclamations  ; while  the  melancholy  note  of  a 
lament,  appropriate  to  the  clan  Cameron,  played  on  the 
bagpipe,  was  heard  from  time  to  time. 

Elspat  started  up  like  one  awTakened  from  the  dead, 
and  without  any  accurate  recollection  of  the  scene  which 
had  passed  before  her  eyes.  There  were  females  in  the 
hut  who  were  swathing  the  corpse  in  its  bloody  plaid  be- 
fore carrying  it  from  the  fatal  spot.  “ Women,”  she  said, 
starting  up  and  interrupting  their  chant  at  once  and  their 


THE  CANONGATE. 


149 


labour — “ Tell  me,  women,  why  sing  you  the  dirge  of 
MacDhonuil  Dhu  in  the  house  of  MacTavish  Mhor  9” 

“ She-wolf,  be  silent  with  thine  ill-omened  yell,  an- 
swered one  of  the  females,  a relation  of  the  deceased, 
“ and  let  us  do  our  duty  to  our  beloved  kinsman.  There 
shall  never  be  coronach  cried,  or  dirge  played,  for  thee 
or  thy  bloody  wolf-burd.*  The  ravens  shall  eat  him 
from  the  gibbet,  and  the  foxes  and  wild  cats  shall  tear  thy 
corpse  upon  the  hill.  Cursed  be  he  that  would  sain  your 
bones,  or  add  a stone  to  your  cairn  !” 

“ Daughter  of  a foolish  mother,”  answered  the  widow 
of  MacTavish  Mhor,  “ know  that  the  gibbet,  with  which 
you  threaten  us,  is  no  portion  of  our  inheritance.  For 
thirty  years  the  Black  Tree  of  the  Law,  whose  apples 
are  dead  men’s  bodies,  hungered  after  the  beloved  hus- 
band of  my  heart  ; but  he  died  like  a brave  man,  with 
the  sword  in  his  hand,  and  defrauded  it  of  its  hopes  and 
its  fruit.” 

“ So  shall  it  not  be  with  thy  child,  bloody  sorceress,” 
replied  the  female  mourner,  whose  passions  were  as  vio- 
lent as  those  of  Elspat  herself.  “ The  ravens  shall  tear 
his  fair  hair  to  line  their  nests,  before  the  sun  sinks  beneath 
the  Treshornish  islands.” 

These  words  recalled  to  Elspat’s  mind  the  whole  his- 
tory of  the  last  three  dreadful  days.  At  first,  she  stood 
fixed  as  if  the  extremity  of  distress  had  converted  her  into 
stone  ; but  in  a minute,  the  pride  and  violence  of  her 
temper,  out-braved  as  she  thought  herself  on  her  own 
threshold,  enabled  her  to  reply — “ Yes,  insulting  hag,  my 
fair-haired  boy  may  die,  but  it  will  not  be  with  a white 
hand — it  has  been  dyed  in  the  blood  of  his  enemy,  in 
the  best  blood  of  a Cameron — remember  that  ; and  when 
you  lay  your  dead  in  his  grave,  let  it  be  his  best  epitaph, 
that  he  was  killed  by  Hamish  Bean  for  essaying  to  lay 
hands  on  the  son  of  MacTavish  Mhor  on  his  own  thres- 


* Wolf-brood,  i.  t.  wolf-cub. 

13*  VOL,  I. 


150 


CHRONICLES  OF 


hold.  Farewell — the  shame  of  defeat,  loss,  and  slaugh- 

ter, remain  with  the  clan  that  has  endured  it !” 

The  relative  of  the  slaughtered  Cameron  raised  her 
voice  in  reply  ; but  Elspat,  disdaining  to  continue  the  ob- 
jurgation, or  perhaps  feeling  her  grief  likely  to  overmaster 
her  power  of  expressing  her  resentment,  had  left  the  hut, 
and  was  walking  forth  in  the  bright  moonshine. 

The  females  who  were  arranging  the  corpse  of  the 
slaughtered  man,  hurried  from  their  melancholy  labour 
to  look  after  her  tall  figure  as  it  glided  away  among  the 
cliffs.  “ 1 am  glad  she  is  gone,”  said  one  of  the  younger 
persons  who  assisted.  “ I would  as  soon  dress  a corpse 
where  the  great  Fiend  himself — God  sain  us — stood  visi- 
bly before  us,  than  when  Elspat  of  the  Tree  is  amongst  us. 
— Ay — ay,  even  overmuch  intercourse  hath  she  had  with 
the  Enemy  in  her  day.” 

“ Silly  woman,”  answered  the  female  who  had  main- 
tained the  dialogue  witli  the  departed  Elspat,  “ thinkest 
thou  that  there  is  a worse  fiend  on  earth,  or  beneath  it, 
than  the  pride  and  fury  of  an  offended  woman,  like  yon- 
der bloody-minded  hag  '?  Know  that  blood  has  been  as 
familiar  to  her  as  the  dew  to  the  mountain-daisy.  Many 
and  many  a brave  man  has  she  caused  to  breathe  their 
last  for  little  wrong  they  had  done  to  her  or  hers.  But 
her  hough-sinews  are  cut,  now  that  her  wolf-burd  must, 
like  a murderer  as  lie  is,  make  a murderer’s  end.” 

Whilst  the  women  thus  discoursed  together,  as  they 
watched  the  corpse  of  Allan  Breaek  Cameron,  the  un- 
happy cause  of  his  death  pursued  her  lonely  way  across 
the  mountain.  While  she  remained  within  sight  of  the 
bothy,  she  put  a strong  constraint  on  herself,  that  by  no 
alteration  of  pace  or  gesture,  she  might  afford  to  her  ene- 
mies the  triumph  of  calculating  the  excess  of  her  mental 
agitation,  nay  despair.  She  stalked,  therefore,  with  a 
slow  rather  than  a swift  step,  and,  holding  herself  upright, 
seemed  at  once  to  endure  with  firmness  that  wo  which 
was  passed,  and  hid  defiance  to  that  which  was  about  to 
come.  But  when  she  was  beyond  the  sight  of  those  who 
remained  in  the  hut,  she  could  no  longer  suppre^  the 


TIIE  CANON  GATE. 


loi 


extremity  of  her  agitation.  Drawing  her  mantle  wildly 
round  her,  she  stopped  at  the  first  knoll,  and  climbing  to 
its  summit,  extended  her  arms  up  to  the  bright  moon,  as 
if  accusing  heaven  and  earth  for  her  misfortunes,  and 
uttered  scream  on  scream,  like  those  of  an  eagle  whose 
nest  has  been  plundered  of  her  brood.  Awhile  she  vent- 
ed her  grief  in  these  inarticulate  cries,  then  rushed  on  her 
way  with  a hasty  and  unequal  step,  in  the  vain  hope  of 
overtaking  the  party  which  was  conveying  her  son  a pris- 
oner to  Dunbarton.  But  her  strength,  superhuman  as  it 
seemed,  failed  her  in  the  trial,  nor  was  it  possible  for  her, 
with  her  utmost  efforts,  to  accomplish  her  purpose. 

Yet  she  pressed  onward,  with  all  the  speed  which  her 
exhausted  frame  could  exert.  When  food  became  in- 
dispensable, she  entered  the  first  ccdtage  : “ Give  me  to 
eat,”  she  said  ; “ I am  the  widow  of  MacTavish  Mhor — 
I am  the  mother  of  Hamish  MacTavish  Bean,— -give  me 
to  eat,  that  I may  once  more  see  my  fair-haired  son.” 
Her  demand  was  never  refused,  though  granted  in  many 
cases  with  a kind  of  struggle  between  compassion  and 
aversion  in  some  of  those  to  whom  she  applied,  which 
was  in  others  qualified  by  fear.  The  share  she  had  had 
in  occasioning  the  death  of  Allan  Breack  Cameron, 
which  must  probably  involve  that  of  her  own  son,  was 
not  accurately  known  ; but,  from  knowledge  of  her  vio- 
lent passions  and  former  habits  of  life,  no  one  doubted  that 
in  one  way  or  other  she  had  been  the  cause  of  the  catas- 
trophe ; and  Hamish  Bean  was  considered,  in  the  slaugh- 
ter which  he  had  committed,  rather  as  the  instrument 
than  as  the  accomplice  of  his  mother. 

This  general  opinion  of  his  countrymen  was  of  little 
service  to  the  unfortunate  Hamish.  As  his  captain, 
Green  Colin,  understood  the  manners  and  habits  of  his 
country,  he  had  no  difficulty  in  collecting  from  Hamish 
the  particulars  accompanying  his  supposed  desertion,  and 
the  subsequent  death  of  the  non-commissioned  officer. 
He  felt  the  utmost  compassion  for  a youth,  who  had  thus 
fallen  a victim  to  the  extravagant  and  fatal  fondness  of  a 
parent.  But  he  had  no  excuse  to  plead  which  could  res- 


152 


CHRONICLES  OF 


cue  his  unhappy  recruit  from  the  doom,  which  military 
discipline  and  the  award  of  a court-martial  denounced 
against  him  for  the  crime  he  had  committed. 

No  time  had  been  lost  in  their  proceedings,  and  as  little 
was  interposed  betwixt  sentence  and  execution.  General 

had  determined  to  make  a severe  example  of  the 

first  deserter  who  should  fall  into  his  power,  and  here  was 
one  who  had  defended  himself  by  main  force,  and  slain 
in  the  affray  the  officer  sent  to  take  him  into  custody.  A 
fitter  subject  for  punishment  could  not  have  occurred,  and 
Hamish  was  sentenced  to  immediate  execution.  All  which 
the  interference  of  his  captain  in  his  favour  could  procure, 
was  that  he  should  die  a soldier’s  death  ; for  there  had 
been  a purpose  of  executing  him  upon  the  gibbet. 

The  worthy  clergyman  of  Glenorquhy  chanced  to  be 
at  Dunbarton,  in  attendance  upon  some  church  courts,  at 
the  time  of  this  catastrophe.  He  visited  his  unfortunate 
parishioner  in  his  dungeon,  found  him  ignorant  indeed, 
but  not  obstinate,  and  the  answers  which  he  received  from 
him,  when  conversing  on  religious  topics,  were  such  as 
induced  him  doubly  to  regret,  that  a mind  naturally  pure 
and  noble  should  have  remained  unhappily  so  wild  and 
uncultivated. 

When  he  ascertained  the  real  character  and  disposition 
of  the  young  man,  the  worthy  pastor  made  deep  and  pain- 
ful reflections  on  his  own  shyness  and  timidity,  which, 
arising  out  of  the  evil  fame  that  attached  to  the  lineage  of 
Hamish,  had  restrained  him  from  charitably  endeavour- 
ing to  bring  this  strayed  sheep  within  the  great  fold. 
While  the  good  minister  blamed  his  cowardice  in  times 
past,  which  had  deterred  him  from  risking  his  person,  to 
save,  perhaps,  an  immortal  soul,  he  resolved  no  longer  to 
be  governed  by  such  timid  counsels,  but  to  endeavour,  by 
application  to  his  officers,  to  obtain  a reprieve,  at  least,  if 
not  a pardon,  for  the  criminal,  in  whom  he  felt  so  unu- 
sually interested,  at  once  from  his  docility  of  temper  and 
his  generosity  of  disposition. 

Accordingly  the  divine  sought  out  Captain  Campbell 
at  the  barracks  within  the  garrison.  There  was  a gloomy 


TIIE  CANONGATE. 


153 


melancholy  on  the  brow  of  Green  Colin,  which  was  not 
lessened,  but  increased,  when  the  clergyman  stated  his 
name,  quality,  and  errand.  “ You  cannot  tell  me  better 
of  the  young  man  than  I am  disposed  to  believe,”  answer- 
ed the  Highland  officer  ; “ you  cannot  ask  me  to  do  more 
in  his  behalf  than  1 am  of  myself  inclined,  and  have  al- 
ready endeavoured  to  do.  But  it  is  all  in  vain.  General 

is  half  a Lowlander,  half  an  Englishman.  He  has 

no  idea  of  the  high  and  enthusiastic  character  which  in 
these  mountains  often  brings  exalted  virtues  in  contact 
with  great  crimes,  which,  however,  are  less  offences  of 
the  heart  than  errors  of  the  understanding.  I have  gone 
so  far  as  to  tell  him,  that  in  this  young  man  he  was  putting 
to  death  the  best  and  the  bravest  of  my  company,  where 
all,  or  almost  all,  are  good  and  brave.  I explained  to 
him  by  what  strange  delusion  the  culprit’s  apparent  de- 
sertion was  occasioned,  and  how  little  his  heart  was  ac- 
cessary to  the  crime  which  his  hand  unhappily  committed. 
His  answer  was,  c There  are  Highland  visions,  Captain 
Campbell,  as  unsatisfactory  and  vain  as  those  of  the  sec- 
ond sight.  An  act  of  gross  desertion  may,  in  any  case, 
be  palliated  under  the  plea  of  intoxication  ; the  murder 
of  an  officer  may  be  as  easily  coloured  over  with  that  of 
temporary  insanity.  The  example  must  be  made,  and  if 
it  has  fallen  on  a man  otherwise  a good  recruit,  it  will 
have  the  greater  effect.’ — Such  being  the  General’s  un- 
alterable purpose,”  continued  Captain  Campbell,  with  a 
sigh,  “ be  it  your  care,  reverend  sir,  that  your  penitent 
prepare  by  break  of  day  to-morrow  for  that  great  change 
which  we  shall  all  one  day  be  subjected  to.” 

“ And  for  which,”  said  the  clergyman,  “ may  God  pre- 
pare us  all,  as  I in  my  duty  will  not  be  wanting  to  this 
poor  youth.” 

Next  morning  as  the  very  earliest  beams  of  sunrise  sa- 
luted the  grey  towers  which  crown  the  summit  of  that  sin- 
gular and  tremendous  rock,  the  soldiers  of  the  new  High- 
land regiment  appeared  on  the  parade,  within  the  Castle  of 
Dunbarton,  and  having  fallen  into  order,  began  to  move 
downward  by  steep  staircases  and  narrow  passages  towards 


154 


CHRONICLES  OF 


the  external  barrier-gate,  which  is  at  the  very  bottom  of 
the  rock.  The  wild  wailings  of  the  pibroch  were  heard 
at  times,  interchanged  with  the  drums  and  files,  which 
beat  the  Dead  March. 

The  unhappy  criminal’s  fate  did  not,  at  first,  excite 
that  general  sympathy  in  the  regiment  which  would  prob- 
ably have  arisen  had  he  been  executed  for  desertion  alone. 
The  slaughter  of  the  unfortunate  Allan  Breach  had  given 
a different  colour  to  Hamish’s  offence;  for  the  deceased 
was  much  beloved,  and  besides  belonged  to  a numerous 
and  powerful  clan,  of  whom  there  were  many  in  the  ranks. 
The;*  unfortunate  criminal,  on  the  contrary,  was  little 
known  to,  and  scarcely  connected  with  any  of  his  regi- 
mental companions.  His  father  had  been,  indeed,  dis- 
tinguished for  his  strength  and  manhood  ; but  he  was  of 
a broken  clan,  as  those  names  were  called,  who  had  no 
chief  to  lead  them  to  battle. 

It  would  have  been  almost  impossible  in  another  case, 
to  have  turned  out  of  the  ranks  of  the  regiment  the  party 
necessary  for  execution  of  the  sentence  ; but  the  six  in- 
dividuals selected  for  that  purpose,  were  friends  of  the 
deceased,  descended,  like  him,  from  the  race  of  Mac- 
Dhonuil  Dhu  ; and  while  they  prepared  for  the  dismal 
task  which  their  duty  imposed,  it  was  not  without  a stern 
feeling  of  gratified  revenge.  The  leading  company  of 
the  regiment  began  now  to  defile  from  the  barrier-gate 
and  was  followed  by  the  others,  each  successively  moving 
and  halting  according  to  the  orders  of  the  Adjutant,  so  as  to 
form  three  sides  of  an  oblong  square,  with  the  ranks  faced 
inwards.  The  fourth,  or  blank  side  of  the  square,  was 
closed  up  by  the  huge  and  lofty  precipice  on  which  the 
Castle  rises.  About  the  centre  of  the  procession,  bare- 
headed, disarmed,  and  with  his  hands  bound,  came  the 
unfortunate  victim  of  military  law.  He  was  deadly  pale, 
but  his  step  was  firm  and  bis  eye  as  bright  as  ever.  The 
clergyman  walked  by  his  side — the  coffin,  which  was  to 
receive  his  mortal  remains,  was  borne  before  him.  The 
looks  of  his  comrades  were  still,  composed,  and  solemn. 
They  felt  for  the  youth,  whose  handsome  form,  and  manly 


Til  R C ANONGATE. 


155 


yet  submissive  deportment  had,  as  soon  as  he  was  dis- 
tinctly visible  to  them,  softened  the  hearts  of  many,  even 
of  some  who  had  been  actuated  by  vindictive  feelings. 

The  coffin  destined  for  the  yet  living  body  of  llamish 
Bean  was  placed  at  the  bottom  of  the  hollow  square, 
about  two  yards  distant  from  the  foot  of  the  precipice, 
which  rises  in  that  place  as  steep  as  a stone  wall  to  the 
height  of  three  or  four  hundred  feet.  Thither  the  pris- 
oner was  also  led,  the  clergyman  still  continuing  by  his 
side,  pouring  forth  exhortations  of  courage  and  consola- 
tion, to  which  the  youth  appeared  to  listen  with  respect- 
ful devotion.  With  slow,  and,  it  seemed,  almost  unwilling 
steps,  the  firing  party  entered  the  square,  and  were  drawn 
up  facing  the  prisoner,  about  ten  yards  distant.  The 
clergyman  was  now  about  to  retire — “ Think,  my  son,” 
he  said,  “ on  what  I have  told  you,  and  let  your  hope  be 
rested  on  the  anchor  which  1 have  given.  You  will  then 
exchange  a short  and  miserable  existence  here,  for  a life 
in  which  you  will  experience  neither  sorrow  nor  pain. — 
Is  there  aught  else  which  you  can  intrust  to  me  to  exe- 
cute for  you 

The  youth  looked  at  his  sleeve  buttons.  They  were 
of  gold,  booty  perhaps  which  his  father  had  taken  from 
some  English  officer  during  the  civil  wars.  The  clergy- 
man disengaged  them  from  his  sleeves. 

u My  mother  !”  he  said  with  some  effort,  “ give  them 
to  my  poor  mother  ! — See  her,  good  father,  and  teach  her 
what  she  should  think  of  all  this.  Tell  her  Hamish  Bean 
is  more  glad  to  die  than  ever  he  was  to  rest  after  the  long- 
est day’s  hunting.  Farewell,  sir — farewell  !” 

The  good  man  could  scarce  retire  from  the  fatal  spot. 
An  officer  afforded  him  the  support  of  his  arm.  At  his 
last  look  towards  Hamish,  lie  beheld  him  alive  and  kneel- 
ing on  the  coffin  ; the  few  that  were  around  him  had  all 
withdrawn.  The  fatal  word  was  given,  the  rock  rung 
sharp  to  the  sound  of  the  discharge,  and  Hamish,  falling 
forward  with  a groan,  died,  it  may  be  supposed,  without 
almost  a sense  of  the  passing  agony. 


156 


CHRONICLES  OF 


Ten  or  twelve  of  his  own  company  then  came  forward, 
and  laid  with  solemn  reverence  the  remains  of  their  com- 
rade in  the  coffin,  while  the  Dead  March  was  again  struck 
up,  and  the  several  companies,  marching  in  single  files,  pass- 
ed the  coffin  one  by  one,  in  order  that  all  might  receive 
from  the  awful  spectacle  the  warning  which  it  was  peculiar- 
ly intended  to  afford.  The  regiment  was  then  marched  off 
the  ground,  and  reascended  the  ancient  cliff,  their  music, 
as  usual  on  such  occasions,  striking  lively  strains,  as  if 
sorrow,  or  even  deep  thought,  should  as  short  a while  as 
possible  be  the  tenant  of  the  soldier’s  bosom. 

At  the  same  time  the  small  party,  which  we  before 
mentioned,  bore  the  bier  of  the  ill-fated  Hamish  to  his 
humble  grave,  in  a corner  of  the  church-yard  of  Dunbar- 
ton, usually  assigned  to  criminals.  Here,  among  the  dust 
of  the  guilty,  lies  a youth,  whose  name,  had  he  survived 
the  ruin  of  the  fatal  events  by  which  he  was  hurried  into 
crime,  might  have  adorned  the  annals  of  the  brave. 

The  minister  of  Glenorquhy  left  Dunbarton  immedi- 
ately after  he  had  witnessed  the  last  scene  of  this  melan- 
choly catastrophe.  His  reason  acquiesced  in  the  justice 
of  the  sentence,  which  required  blood  for  blood,  and  he 
acknowledged  that  the  vindictive  character  of  his  country- 
men required  to  be  powerfully  restrained  by  the  strong 
curb  of  social  law.  But  still  he  mourned  over  the  indi- 
vidual victim.  Who  may  arraign  the  bolt  of  Heaven 
when  it  bursts  among  the  sons  of  the  forest  ; yet  who  can 
refrain  from  mourning,  when  it  selects  for  the  object  of 
its  blighting  aim  the  fair  stem  of  a young  oak,  that  prom- 
ised to  be  the  pride  of  the  dell  in  which  it  flourished  ? 
Musing  on  these  melancholy  events,  noon  found  him  en- 
gaged in  the  mountain  passes,  by  which  he  was  to  return 
to  his  still  distant  home. 

Confident  in  his  knowledge  of  the  country,  the  clergy- 
man had  left  the  main  road,  to  seek  one  of  those  shorter 
paths,  which  are  only  used  by  pedestrians,  or  by  men 
like  the  minister,  mounted  on  the  small,  but  sure-footed, 
hardy,  and  sagacious  horses  of  the  country.  The  place 
which  he  now  traversed,  was  in  itself  gloomy  and  deso- 


THE  CANONGATE. 


157 


late,  and  tradition  had  added  to  it  the  terror  of  superstition, 
by  affirming  it  was  haunted  by  an  evil  spirit,  termed 
Cloght-dearg , that  is,  Red  mantle,  who  at  all  times,  but 
especially  at  noon  and  at  midnight,  traversed  the  glen,  in 
enmity  both  to  man  and  the  inferior  creation,  did  such 
evil  as  her  power  was  permitted  to  extend  to,  and  afflicted 
with  ghastly  terrors  those  whom  she  had  not  license  oth- 
erwise to  hurt. 

The  minister  of  Glenorquhy  had  set  his  face  in  oppo- 
sition to  many  of  these  superstitions,  which  he  justly 
thought  were  derived  from  the  dark  ages  of  Popery,  per- 
haps even  from  those  of  Paganism,  and  unfit  to  be  enter- 
tained or  believed  by  the  Christians  of  an  enlightened  age. 
Some  of  his  more  attached  parishioners  considered  him 
as  too  rash  in  opposing  the  ancient  faith  of  their  fathers  ; 
and  though  they  honoured  the  moral  intrepidity  of  their 
pastor,  they  could  not  avoid  entertaining  and  expressing 
fears,  that  he  would  one  day  fall  a victim  to  his  temerity, 
and  be  torn  to  pieces  in  the  glen  of  the  Cloght-dearg,  or 
some  of  those  other  haunted  wilds,  which  he  appeared 
rather  to  have  a pride  and  pleasure  in  traversing  alone, 
on  the  days  and  hours  when  the  wicked  spirits  were  sup- 
posed to  have  especial  power  over  man  and  beast. 

These  legends  came  across  the  mind  of  the  clergyman  ; 
and,  solitary  as  he  was,  a melancholy  smile  shaded  his 
cheek,  as  he  thought  of  the  inconsistency  of  human  nature, 
and  reflected  how  many  brave  men,  w7hom  the  yell  of  the 
pibroch  would  have  sent  headlong  against  fixed  bayonets, 
as  the  wild  bull  rushes  on  his  enemy,  might  have  yet 
feared  to  encounter  those  visionary  terrors,  which  he  him- 
self, a man  of  peace,  and  in  ordinary  perils  no  way  re- 
markable for  the  firmness  of  his  nerves,  was  now  risking 
without  hesitation. 

As  he  looked  around  the  scene  of  desolation,  he  could 
not  but  acknowledge,  in  his  own  mind,  that  it  was  not  ill 
chosen  for  the  haunt  of  those  spirits,  which  are  said  to 
delight  in  solitude  and  desolation.  The  glen  was  so  steep 
and  narrow,  that  there  was  but  just  room  for  the  meridian 
14  VOL.  I. 


158 


CHRONICLES  OF 


sun  to  dart  a few  scattered  rays  upon  the  gloomy  and  pre- 
carious stream  which  stole  through  its  recesses,  for  the 
most  part  in  silence,  but  occasionally  murmuring  sullenly 
against  the  rocks  and  large  stones,  which  seemed  deter- 
mined to  bar  its  further  progress.  In  winter,  or  in  the 
rainy  season,  this  small  stream  was  a foaming  torrent  of 
the  most  formidable  magnitude,  and  it  was  at  such  periods 
that  it  had  torn  open  and  laid  bare  the  broad-faced  and 
huge  fragments  of  rock,  which,  at  the  season  of  which  we 
speak,  hid  its  course  iron)  the  eye,  and  seemed  disposed 
totally  to  interrupt  its  course.  “ Undoubtedly,”  thought 
the  clergyman,  “ this  mountain  rivulet,  suddenly  swelled 
by  a water-spout,  or  thunder-storm,  has  often  been  the 
cause  of  those  accidents,  which,  happening  in  the  glen 
called  by  her  name,  have  been  ascribed  to  the  agency  of 
the  Cioght-dearg. 

Just  as  this  idea  crossed  his  mind,  he  heard  a female 
voice  exclaim,  in  a wild  and  thrilling  accent,  “ Michael 
Tyrie — Michael  Tyrie  !”  He  looked  round  in  astonish- 
ment, and  not  without  some  fear.  It  seemed  for  an  in- 
stant, as  if  the  Evil  Being,  whose  existence  he  had  dis- 
owned, was  about  to  appear  for  the  punishment  of  his 
incredulity.  This  alarm  did  not  hold  him  more  than  an 
instant,  nor  did  it  prevent  his  replying  in  a firm  voice, 
u Who  calls — -and  where  are  you  ?” 

“ One  who  journeys  in  wretchedness,  between  life 
and  death,”  answered  the  voice  ; and  the  speaker,  a tall 
female,  appeared  from  among  the  fragments  of  rocks 
which  had  concealed  her  from  view. 

As  she  approached  more  closely,  her  mantle  of  bright 
tartan,  in  which  the  red  colour  much  predominated,  her 
stature,  the  long  stride  with  which  she  advanced,  and  the 
writhen  features  and  wild  eyes  which  were  visible  from 
under  her  curch,  would  have  made  her  no  inadequate 
representative  of  the  spirit  which  gave  name  to  the  valley. 
But  Mr.  Tyrie  instantly  knew  her  as  the  woman  of  the 
Tree;  the  widow  of  MacTavish  Mhor,  the  now  childless 
mother  of  Harnish  Bean.  I am  not  sure  whether  the 
minister  would  not  have  endured  the  visitation  of  the 


TIIE  CANONGATE. 


159 


Cloght-dearg  herself,  rather  than  the  shock  of  Elspat’s 
presence,  considering  her.  crime  and  her  misery.  He 
drew  up  his  horse  instinctively,  and  stood  endeavouring 
to  collect  his  ideas,  while  a few  paces  brought  her  up  to 
his  horse’s  head. 

“ Michael  Tyrie,”  said  she,  “ the  foolish  women  of 
the  Clachan*  hold  thee  as  a God — be  one  to  me,  and  say 
that  my  son  lives.  Say  this,  and  1 too  will  be  of  thy  wor- 
ship— 1 will  bend  my  knees  on  the  seventh  day  in  thy 
house  of  worship,  and  thy  God  shall  be  my  God.1’ 

“ Unhappy  woman,”  replied  the  clergyman,  “ man 
forms  not  pactions  with  his  Maker  as  with  a creature  of 
clay  like  himself.  Thickest  thou  to  chaffer  with  Him,  who 
formed  the  earth,  and  spread  out  the  heavens,  or  that  thou 
canst  offer  aught  of  homage  or  devotion  that  can  be  worth 
acceptance  in  his  eyes  He  hath  asked  obedience,  not 
sacrifice  ; patience  under  the  trials  with  which  he  afflicts 
us,  instead  of  vain  bribes,  such  as  man  offers  to  his  change- 
ful brother  of  clay,  that  he  may  be  moved  from  his  pur- 
pose.” 

“ Be  silent,  priest !”  answered  the  desperate  woman  ; 
“ speak  not  to  me  the  words  of  thy  white  book.  Elspat’s 
kindred  were  of  those  who  crossed  themselves  and  knelt 
when  the  sacring  bell  was  rung  ; and  she  knows  that  atone- 
ment can  be  made  on  the  altar  for  deeds  done  in  the  field. 
Elspat  had  once  flocks  and  herds,  goats  upon  the  cliffs, 
and  cattle  in  the  strath.  She  wore  gold  around  her  neck 
and  on  her  hair — thick  twists  as  those  worn  by  the  heroes 
of  old.  All  these  would  she  have  resigned  to  the  priest 
— all  these  ; and  if  he  wished  for  the  ornaments  of  a 
gentle  lady,  or  the  sporran  of  a high  chief,  though  they 
had  been  great  as  MacallanMore  himself,  MacTavish 
Mhor  would  have  procured  them  if  Elspat  had  promised 
them.  Elspat  is  now  poor,  and  has  nothing  to  give.  But 
the  Black  Abbot  of  Inchaffray  would  have  bidden  her 
scourge  her  shoulders,  and  macerate  her  feet  by  pilgrim- 
age, and  he  would  have  granted  his  pardon  to  her  when 


i.  e.  The  village,  literally  the  stones. 


1G0 


CHRONICLES  OF 


he  saw  that  her  blood  had  flowed,  and  that  her  flesh  had 
been  torn.  These  were  the  priests  who  had  indeed  power 
even  with  the  most  powerful — they  threatened  the  great 
men  of  the  earth  with  the  word  of  their  mouth,  the  sen- 
tence of  their  book,  the  blaze  of  their  torch,  and  sound 
of  their  sacring  bell.  The  mighty  bent  to  their  will,  and 
unloosed  af  the  word  of  the  priests  those  whom  they  had 
bound  in  their  wrath,  and  set  at  liberty,  unharmed,  him 
whom  they  had  sentenced  to  death,  and  for  whose  blood 
they  had  thirsted.  These  were  a powerful  race,  and 
might  well  ask  the  poor  to  kneel,  since  their  power  could 
humble  the  proud.  But  you  ! — against  whom  are  ye 
strong,  but  against  women  who  have  been  guilty  of  folly, 
and  men  who  never  wore  sword  9 The  priests  of  old 
were  like  the  winter  torrent  which  fills  this  hollow  valley, 
and  rolls  these  massive  rocks  against  each  other  as  easily 
as  the  boy  plays  with  the  ball  which  he  casts  before  him 
— But  you  ! you  do  but  resemble  the  summer-stricken 
stream,  which  is  turned  aside  by  the  rushes,  and  stemmed 
by  a bush  of  sedges — wo  worth  you,  for  there  is  no  help 
in  you  !” 

The  clergyman  was  at  no  loss  to  conceive  that  Elspat 
had  lost  the  Roman  Catholic  faith  without  gaining  any 
other,  and  that  she  still  retained  a vague  and  confused 
idea  of  the  composition  with  the  priesthood,  by  confession, 
alms,  and  penance,  and  of  their  extensive  power,  which, 
according  to  her  notion,  was  adequate,  if  duly  propitiated, 
even  to  effecting  her  sop’s  safety.  Compassionating  her 
situation,  and  allowing  for  her  errors  and  ignorance,  he 
answered  her  with  mildness. 

“ Alas,  unhappy  woman  ! Would  to  God  I could  con- 
vince thee  as  easily  where  thou  oughtest  to  seek,  and  art 
sure  lo  find  consolation,  as  I can  assure  you  with  a single 
word,  that  were  Rome  and  all  her  priesthood  once  more 
in  the  plenitude  of  their  power,  they  could  not,  for  lar- 
gesse or  penance,  afford  to  thy  misery  an  atom  of  aid  or 
comfort. — Elspat  MacTavish,  I grieve  to  tell  you  the 
news.” 


THE  CAXONGATE . 


161 


“ I know  them  without  thy  speech,”  said  the  unhappy 
woman — “ My  son  is  doomed  to  die.” 

“ Elspat,”  resumed  the  clergyman,  “ he  was  doomed, 
and  the  sentence  has  been  executed.”*  The  hapless  moth- 
er threw  her  eyes  up  to  heaven,  and  uttered  a shriek  so 
unlike  the  voice  of  a human  being,  that  the  eagle  which 
soared  in  middle  air  answered  it  as  she  would  have  done 
the  call  of  her  mate. 

“ It  is  impossible  !”  she  exclaimed,  “ it  is  impossible  ! 
Men  do  not  condemn  and  kill  on  the  same  day  ! Thou 
art  deceiving  me.  The  people  call  thee  holy — hast  thou 
the  heart  to  tell  a mother  she  has  murdered  her  only 
child  <?” 

“ God  knows,”  said  the  priest,  the  tears  falling  fast 
from  his  eyes,  “ that  were  it  in  my  power,  I would  gladly 
tell  better  tidings — But  these  which  I bear  are  as  certain 
as  they  are  fatal — My  own  ears  heard  the  death-shot,  my 
own  eyes  beheld  thy  son’s  death — thy  son’s  funeral. — - 
My  tongue  bears  witness  to  what  my  ears  heard  and  my 
eyes  saw.” 

The  wretched  female  clasped  her  hands  close  together, 
and  held  them  up  towards  heaven  like  a sibyl  announcing 
war  and  desolation,  while,  in  impotent  yet  frightful  rage, 
she  poured  forth  a tide  of  the  deepest  imprecations. — 
“ Base  Saxon  churl  !”  she  exclaimed,  “ vile  hypocritical 
juggler  ! May  the  eyes  that  looked  tamely  on  the  death  of 
my  fair-haired  boy  be  melted  in  their  sockets  with  cease- 
less tears,  shed  for  those  that  are  nearest  and  most  dear 
to  thee  ! May  the  ears  that  heard  his  death-knell  be  dead 
hereafter  to  all  other  sounds  save  the  screech  of  the  ra- 
ven, and  the  hissing  of  the  adder  ! May  the  tongue  that 
tells  me  of  his  death  and  of  my  own  crime,  be  withered 
in  thy  mouth — or  better,  when  thou  wouldst  pray  with  thy 
people,  may  the  Evil  One  guide  it,  and  give  voice  to 
blasphemies  instead  of  blessings,  until  men  shall  fly  in 
terror  from  thy  presence,  and  the  thunder  of  heaven  be 
launched  against  thy  bead,  and  stop  for  ever  thy  cursing 
and  accursed  voice  ! Begone  ! with  this  malison. : — Elspat 
14*  VOL,  i. 


162 


CHRONICLES  OF 


will  never,  never  again  bestow  so  many  words  upon  living 
man.” 

She  kept  her  word — from  that  day  the  world  was  to 
her  a wilderness,  in  which  she  remained  without  thought, 
care,  or  interest,  absorbed  in  her  own  grief,  indifferent  to 
everything  else. 

With  her  mode  of  life,  or  rather  of  existence,  the  read- 
er is  already  as  far  acquainted  as  1 have  the  power  of 
making  him.  Of  her  death,  1 can  tell  him  nothing.  It 
is  supposed  to  have  happened  several  years  after  she  had 
attracted  the  attention  of  my  excellent  friend  Mrs.  Be- 
thune  Baliol.  Her  benevolence,  which  was  never  satis- 
fied with  dropping  a sentimental  tear,  when  there  was 
room  for  the  operation  of  effective  charity,  induced  her 
to  make  various  attempts  to  alleviate  the  condition  of  this 
most  wretched  woman.  But  all  her  exertions  could  only 
render  Elspat’s  means  of  subsistence  less  precarious,  a 
circumstance  which,  though  generally  interesting  even  to 
the  most  wretched  outcasts,  seemed  to  her  a matter  of 
total  indifference.  Every  attempt  to  place  any  person  in 
her  hut  to  take  charge  of  her  miscarried,  through  the  ex- 
treme resentment  with  which  she  regarded  all  intrusion 
on  her  solitude,  or  by  the  timidity  of  those  who  had  been 
pitched  upon  to  be  inmates  with  the  terrible  woman  of 
the  Tree.  At  length,  when  Elspat  became  totally  unable 
(in  appearance  at  least)  to  turn  herself  on  the  wretched 
settle  which  served  her  for  a couch,  the  humanity  of  Mr. 
Tyrie’s  successor  sent  two  women  to  attend  upon  the  last 
moments  of  the  solitary,  which  could  not,  it  was  judged, 
be  far  distant,  and  to  avert  the  shocking  possibility  that 
she  might  perish  for  want  of  assistance  or  food,  before 
she  sunk  under  the  effects  of  extreme  age,  or  mortal 
malady. 

It  was  on  a November  evening,  that  the  two  women 
appointed  for  this  melancholy  purpose,  arrived  at  the  mis- 
erable cottage  which  we  have  already  described.  Its 
wretched  inmate  lay  stretched  upon  the  bed,  and  seemed 
almost  already  a lifeless  corpse,  save  for  the  wandering 
of  the  fierce  dark  eyes,  which  rolled  in  their  sockets  in  a 


THE  CANONGATE. 


163 


manner  terrible  to  look  upon,  and  seemed  to  watch  with 
surprise  and  indignation  the  motions  of  the  strangers,  as 
persons  whose  presence  was  alike  unexpected  and  unwel- 
come. They  were  frightened  at  her  looks  ; but,  assured 
in  each  other’s  company,  they  kindled  a fire,  lighted  a 
candle,  prepared  food,  and  made  other  arrangements  for 
the  discharge  of  the  duty  assigned  them. 

The  assistants  agreed  they  should  watch  the  bedside 
of  the  sick  person  by  turns  ; but,  about  midnight,  over- 
come by  fatigue,  (for  they  had  walked  far  that  morning,) 
both  of  them  fell  fast  asleep.  When  they  awoke,  which 
was  not  till  after  the  interval  of  some  hours,  the  hut  was 
empty,  and  the  patient  gone.  They  rose  in  terror,  and 
went  to  the  door  of  the  cottage,  which  was  latched  as  it 
had  been  at  night.  They  looked  out  into  the  darkness, 
and  called  upon  their  charge  by  her  name.  The  night- 
raven  screamed  from  the  old  oak  tree,  the  fox  howled  on 
the  hill,  the  hoarse  waterfall  replied  with  its  echoes,  but 
there  was  no  human  answer.  The  terrified  women  did 
not  dare  to  make  further  search  till  morning  should  ap- 
pear; for  the  sudden  disappearance  of  a creature  so  frail 
as  Elspat,  together  with  the  wild  tenor  of  her  history,  in- 
timidated them  from  stirring  from  the  hut.  They  remain- 
ed, therefore,  in  dreadful  terror,  sometimes  thinking  they 
heard  her  voice  without,  and  at  other  times,  that  sounds 
of  a different  description  were  mingled  with  the  mournful 
sigh  of  the  night-breeze,  or  the  dash  of  the  cascade. 
Sometimes,  too,  the  latch  rattled,  as  if  some  frail  and  im- 
potent hand  were  in  vain  attempting  to  lift  it,  and  ever  and 
anon  they  expected  the  entrance  of  their  terrible  patient, 
animated  by  supernatural  strength,  and  in  the  company, 
perhaps,  of  some  being  more  dreadful  than  herself.  Morn- 
ing came  at  length.  They  sought  brake,  rock,  and  thicket 
in  vain.  Two  hours  after  daylight,  the  minister  himself 
appeared,  and  on  the  report  of  the  watchers,  caused  the 
country  to  be  alarmed,  and  a general  and  exact  search  to 
be  made  through  the  whole  neighbourhood  of  the  cottage, 
and  the  oak  tree.  But  it  was  all  in  vain.  Elspat  Mac- 
Tavisli  was  never  found,  whether  dead  or  alive  ; nor 


164 


CHRONICLES  OF 


could  there  ever  be  traced  the  slightest  circumstance  to 
indicate  her  fate. 

The  neighbourhood  was  divided  concerning  the  cause 
of  her  disappearance.  The  credulous  thought  that  the 
evil  spirit,  under  whose  influence  she  seemed  to  have  act- 
ed, had  carried  her  away  in  the  body  ; and  there  are 
many  who  are  still  unwilling,  at  untimely  hours,  to  pass 
the  oak  tree,  beneath  which,  as  they  allege,  she  may  still 
be  seen  seated  according  to  her  wont.  Others  less  su- 
perstitious supposed,  that  had  it  been  possible  to  search 
the  gulf  of  the  Corri  Dhu,  the  profound  deeps  of  the  lake, 
or  the  whelming  eddies  of  the  river,  the  remains  of  El- 
spat  MacTavish  might  have  been  discovered  ; as  nothing 
was  more  natural,  considering  her  state  of  body  and  mind, 
than  that  she  should  have  fallen  in  by  accident,  or  precip- 
itated herself  intentionally  into  one  or  other  cf  those  places 
of  sure  destruction.  The  clergyman  entertained  an  opin- 
ion of  his  own.  He  thought,  that  impatient  of  the  watch 
which  was  placed  over  her,  this  unhappy  woman’s  instinct 
had  taught  her,  as  it  directs  various  domestic  animals,  to 
withdraw  herself  from  the  sight  of  her  own  race,  that  the 
death-struggle  might  take  place  in  some  secret  den,  where, 
in  all  probability,  her  mortal  relics  would  never  meet  the 
eyes  of  mortals.  This  species  of  instinctive  feeling  seem- 
ed to  him  of  a tenor  with  the  whole  course  of  her  unhappy 
life,  and  most  likely  to  influence  her,  when  it  drew  to  a 
conclusion. 


THE  CANONGATK. 


165 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Together  both  on  the  high  lawns  appeared. 

Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn 

They  drove  afield. 

Elegy  on  Lycidas. 

I have  sometimes  wondered  why  all  the  favourite  oc- 
cupations and  pastimes  of  mankind  go  to  the  disturbance 
of  that  happy  state  of  tranquillity,  that  Otium , as  Horace 
terms  it,  which  he  says  is  the  object  of  all  men’s  prayers, 
whether  preferred  from  sea  or  land  ; and  that  the  undis- 
turbed repose,  of  which  we  are  so  tenacious,  when  duty 
or  necessity  compels  us  to  abandon  it,  is  precisely  what 
we  long  to  exchange  for  a state  of  excitation,  as  soon  as  we 
may  prolong  it  at  our  own  pleasure.  Briefly,  you  have 
only  to  say  to  a man,  “ remain  at  rest,”  and  you  instantly 
inspire  the  love  of  labour.  The  sportsman  toils  like  his 
gamekeeper,  the  master  of  the  pack  takes  as  severe  ex- 
ercise as  his  whipper-in,  the  statesman  or  politician  drudges 
more  than  the  professional  lawyer  ; and,  to  come  to  my 
own  case,  the  volunteer  author  subjects  himself  to  the 
risk  of  painful  criticism,  and  the  assured  certainty  of 
mental  and  manual  labour,  just  as  completely  as  his  needy 
brother,  whose  necessities  compel  him  to  assume  the  pen. 

These  reflections  have  been  suggested  by  an  annun- 
ciation on  the  part  of  Janet,  “ that  the  little  Gillie-white- 
foot  was  come  from  the  printing  office.” 

“ Gillie-blackfoot  you  should  call  him,  Janet,  “ was 
my  response,  “ for  he  is  neither  more  nor  less  than  an 
imp  of  the  devil,  come  to  torment  me  for  copy , for  so 
they  call  a supply  of  manuscript  for  the  press.” 

“ Now',  Cot  forgie  your  honour,”  said  Janet;  “ for  it 
is  no  like  your  ainsell  to  give  such  names  to  a faitherless 
bairn.” 


166 


CHRONICLES  OF 


“ I have  got  nothing  else  to  give  him,  Janet — he  must 
wait  a little. ” 

“ Then  1 have  got  some  breakfast  to  give  the  bit  gil- 
lie,” said  Janet;  “ and  he  can  wait  by  the  fireside  in  the 
kitchen,  till  your  honour’s  ready  ; and  cooa  enough  for 
the  like  of  him,  if  he  was  to  wait  your  honour’s  pleasure 
all  day.”  ^ 

“ But,  Janet,”  said  I to  my  little  active  superintendent, 
on  her  return  to  the  parlour,  after  having  made  her  hos- 
pitable arrangement,  “ I begin  to  find  this  writing  our 
Chronicles  is  rather  more  tiresome  than  I expected,  for 
here  comes  this  little  fellow  to  ask  for  manuscript — that 
is,  for  something  to  print — and  1 have  got  none  to  give 
him.” 

“ Your  honour  can  be  at  nae  loss  ; 1 have  seen  you 
write  fast  and  fast  enough  ; and  for  subjects,  you  have 
the  whole  Highlands  to  write  about,  and  I am  sure  you 
know  a hundred  tales  better  than  that  about  Hamish 
MacTavish,  for  it  was  but  about  a young  cateran  and  an 
auld  carline,  when  all’s  done  ; and  if  they  had  burned 
the  rudas  quean  for  a witch,  I am  thinking,  may  be,  they 
would  not  have  tyned  their  coals — and  her  to  gar  her 
neer-do-weel  son  shoot  a gentleman  ! I am  third  cousin 
to  the  Camerons  mysell — my  blood  warms  to  them — And 
if  you  want  to  write  about  deserters,  I am  sure  there  were 
deserters  enough  on  the  top  of  Arthur’s  Seat,  when  the 
Mac  Raas  broke  out,  and  on  that  woful  day  beside  Leith 
Pier — Ohonari  !— ” 

Here  Janet  began  to  weep,  and  to  wipe  her  eyes  with 
her  apron.  For  my  part,  the  idea  I wanted  was  supplied, 
but  1 hesitated  to  make  use  of  it.  Topics,  like  times,  are 
apt  to  become  common  by  frequent  use.  It  is  only  an 
ass  like  Justice  Shallow,  who  would  pitch  upon  the  over- 
scutched  tunes,  which  the  carmen  whistled,  and  try  to 
pass  them  off  as  his  fancies  and  his  good-nights . Now, 

the  Highlanders,  though  formerly  a rich  mine  for  original 
matter,  is,  as  my  friend  Mrs.  Bethune  Baliol  warned  me, 
in  some  degree  worn  out  by  the  incessant  labour  of  mod- 
ern romancers  and  novelists,  who,  finding  in  these  remote 


THE  CANONGATE. 


167 


regions  primitive  habits  and  manners,  have  vainly  imag- 
ined that  the  public  can  never  tire  of  them  ; and  so  kilt- 
ed Highlanders  are  to  be  found  as  frequently,  and  nearly 
of  as  genuine  descent,  on  the  shelves  of  a circulating  li- 
brary, as  at  a Caledonian  ball.  Much  might  have  been 
made  at  an  earlier  time  out  of  the  history  of  a Highland 
regiment,  and  the  singular  change  of  ideas  which  must 
have  taken  place  in  the  minds  of  those  who  composed  it, 
when  exchanging  their  native  hills  for  the  battle  fields 
of  the  Continent,  and  their  simple,  and  sometimes  indo- 
lent domestic  habits,  for  the  regular  exertions  demanded 
by  modern  discipline.  But  the  market  is  forestalled. 
There  is  Mrs.  Grant  of  Laggan,  has  drawn  the  manners, 
customs,  and  superstitions  of  the  mountains  in  their  natu- 
ral unsophisticated  state,  and  my  friend,  General  Stewart 
of  Garth,  in  giving  the  real  history  of  the  Highland  regi- 
ments, has  rendered  any  attempt  to  fill  up  the  sketch  with 
fancy-colouring  extremely  rash  and  precarious.  Yet  I, 
too,  have  still  a lingering  fancy  to  add  a stone  to  the 
cairn-;  and  without  calling  in  imagination  to  aid  the  im- 
pressions of  juvenile  recollection,  1 may  just  attempt  to 
embody  one  or  two  scenes  illustrative  of  the  Highland 
character,  and  which  belong  peculiarly  to  the  Chronicles 
of  the  Canongate,  to  the  greyheaded  eld  of  whom  they 
are  as  familiar  as  to  Chrystal  Croftangry.  Yeti  will  not 
go  back  to  the  days  of  clanship  and  claymores.  Have 
at  you,  gentle  reader,  with  a tale  of  Two  Drovers.  An 
oyster  may  be  crossed  in  love,  says  the  gentle  Tilburina 
— and  a drover  may  be  touched  in  point  of  honour,  says 
the  Chronicler  of  the  Canongate. 


168 


CHRONICLES  OF 


ffl&e  ®too  Brobrrs- 

It  was  the  clay  after  the  Donne  Fair  when  my  story 
commences.  It  had  been  a brisk  market,  several  dealers 
had  attended  from  the  northern  and  midland  counties  in 
England,  and  the  English  money  had  flown  so  merrily 
about  as  to  gladden  the  hearts  of  the  Highland  farmers. 
Many  large  droves  were  about  to  set  off  for  England, 
under  the  protection  of  their  owners,  or  of  the  topsmen 
whom  they  employed  in  the  tedious,  laborious,  and  re- 
sponsible office  of  driving  the  cattle  for  many  hundred 
miles,  from  the  market  where  they  had  been  purchased  to 
the  fields  or  farm-yards  where  they  were  to  be  fattened 
for  the  shambles. 

The  Highlanders  in  particular  are  masters  of  this  diffi- 
cult trade  of  driving,  which  seems  to  suit  them  as  w’ell  as 
the  trade  of  war.  It  affords  exercise  for  all  their  habits 
of  patient  endurance  and  active  exertion.  They  are  re- 
quired to  know  perfectly  the  drove-roads,  which  lie  over 
the  wildest  tracts  of  the  country,  and  to  avoid  as  much 
as  possible  the  highways,  which  distress  the  feet  of  the 
bullocks,  and  the  turnpikes,  which  annoy  the  spirit  of  the 
drover  ; whereas  on  the  broad  green  or  grey  track,  which 
leads  across  the  pathless  moor,  the  herd  not  only  move 
at  ease  and  without  taxation,  but,  if  they  mind  their  busi- 
ness, may  pick  up  a mouthful  of  food  by  the  way.  At 
night,  the  drovers  usually  sleep  along  with  their  cattle, 
let  the  weather  be  what  it  will  ; and  many  of  these  hardy 
men  do  not  once  rest  under  a roof  during  a journey  on 
foot  from  Lochaberto  Lincolnshire.  They  are  paid  very 
highly,  for  the  trust  reposed  is  of  the  last  importance,  as 
it  depends  on  their  prudence,  vigilance,  and  honesty, 
whether  the  cattle  reach  the  final  market  in  good  order, 


THE  CANONGATE. 


169 


and  afford  a profit  to  the  grazier.  But  as  they  maintain 
themselves  at  their  own  expense,  they  are  especially 
economical  in  that  particular.  At  the  period  we  speak 
of,  a Highland  drover  was  victualled  lor  his  long  and 
toilsome  journey  with  a few  handfuls  of  oatmeal  and  two 
or  three  onions,  renewed  from  time  to  time,  and  a ram’s 
horn  filled  with  whisky,  which  he  used  regularly,  but 
sparingly,  every  night  and  morning.  His  dirk,  or  s/cene - 
dhu , (i.  e.  black  knife,)  so  worn  as  to  be  concealed  be- 
neath the  arm,  or  by  the  folds  of  the  plaid,  was  his  only 
weapon,  excepting  the  cudgel  with  which  he  directed  the 
movements  of  the  cattle.  A Highlander  was  never  so 
happy  as  on  these  occasions.  There  was  a variety  in  the 
whole  journey,  which  exercised  the  Celt’s  natural  curi- 
osity and  love  of  motion  ; there  were  the  constant  change 
of  pi  ace  and  scene,  the  petty  adventures  incidental  to 
the  traffic,  and  the  intercourse  with  the  various  farmers, 
graziers,  and  traders,  intermingled  w ith  occasional  merry- 
makings, not  the  less  acceptable  to  Donald  that  they  were 
void  of  expense  ; — and  there  was  the  consciousness  of 
superior  skill  ; for  the  Highlander,  a child  amongst  flocks, 
is  a prince  amongst  herds,  and  his  natural  habits  induce 
him  to  disdain  the  shepherd’s  slothful  life,  so  that  he  feels 
himself  nowhere  more  at  home  than  when  following  a 
gallant  drove  of  his  country  cattle  in  the  character  of 
their  guardian. 

Of  the  number  who  left  Donne  in  the  morning,  and 
with  the  purpose  we  have  described,  not  a Glunamie  of 
them  all  cocked  his  bonnet  more  briskly,  or  gartered  his 
tartan  hose  under  knee  over  a pair  of  more  promising 
spiogs , (legs,)  than  did  Robin  Oig  M‘Combich,  called 
familiarly  Robin  Oig,  that  is  Young,  or  the  Lesser,  Robin. 
Though  small  of  stature,  as  the  epithet  Oig  implies,  and 
not  very  strongly  limbed,  he  was  as  light  and  alert  as  one 
of  the  deer  of  his  mountains.  He  had  an  elasticity  of 
step,  which,  in  the  course  of  a long  march,  made  many 
a stout  fellow  envy  him  ; and  the  manner  in  which  he 
busked  his  plaid  and  adjusted  his  bonnet,  argued  a con- 
15  VOL.  S. 


170 


CHRONICLES  OF 


sciousness  that  so  smart  a John  Highlandman  as  himself 
would  not  pass  unnoticed  among  the  Lowland  lasses. 
The  ruddy  cheek,  red  lips,  and  white  teeth,  set  off  a 
countenance  which  had  gained  by  exposure  to  the  weath- 
er a healthful  and  hardy  rather  than  a rugged'  hue.  If 
Robin  Oig  did  not  laugh,  or  even  smile  frequently,  as 
indeed  is  not  the  practice  among  his  countrymen,  his 
bright  eyes  usually  gleamed  from  under  his  bonnet  with 
an  expression  of  cheerfulness  ready  to  be  turned  into 
mirth. 

The  departure  of  Robin  Oig  was  an  incident  in  the 
little  town,  in  and  near  which  he  had  many  friends  male 
and  female.  He  was  a topping  person  in  his  way,  trans- 
acted considerable  business  on  his  own  behalf,  and  was 
intrusted  by  the  best  farmers  in  the  Highlands,  in  prefer- 
ence to  any  other  drover  in  that  district.  He  might  have 
increased  his  business  to  any  extent  had  he  condescended 
to  manage  it  by  deputy  ; but  except  a lad  or  two,  sister’s 
sons  of  his  own,  Robin  rejected  the  idea  of  assistance, 
conscious,  perhaps,  how  much  his  reputation  depended 
upon  his  attending  in  person  to  the  practical  discharge  of 
his  duty  in  every  instance.  He  remained,  therefore,  con- 
tented with  the  highest  premium  given  to  persons  of  his 
description,  and  comforted  himself  with  the  hopes  that  a 
few  journeys  to  England  might  enable  him  to  conduct 
business  on  his  own  account,  in  a manner  becoming  his 
birth.  For  Robin  Oig’s  father,  Lachlan  M‘Combich, 
(or,  son  of  my  friend , his  actual  clan-surname  being 
M‘Gregor,)  had  been  so  called  by  the  celebrated  Rob 
Roy,  because  of  the  particular  friendship  which  had  sub- 
sisted between  the  grandsire  of  Robin  and  that  renowned 
cateran.  Some  people  even  say,  that  Robin  Oig  derived 
his  Christian  name  from  a man,  as  renowned  in  the  wilds 
of  Lochlomond,  as  ever  was  his  namesake  Robin  Hood, 
in  the  precincts  of  merry  Sherwood.  “ Of  such  ances- 
try,” as  James  Boswell  says,  “ who  would  not  be  proud  ?” 
Robin  Oig  was  proud  accordingly;  but  his  frequent  visits 
to  England  and  to  the  Lowlands  had  given  him  tact 
enough  to  know  that  pretensions,  which  still  gave  him  a 


TIIE  CANONGATK. 


171 


little  right  to  distinction  in  his  own  lonely  glen,  might  be 
both  obnoxious  and  ridiculous  if  preferred  elsewhere. 
The  pride  of  birth,  therefore,  was  like  the  miser’s  treas- 
ure, the  secret  subject  of  his  contemplation,  but  rtever 
exhibited  to  strangers  as  a subject  of  boasting. 

Many  were  the  words  of.  gratulation  and  good-luck 
which  were  bestowed  on  Robin  Oig.  The  judges  com- 
mended his  drove,  especially  the  best  of  them,  which 
were  Robin’s  own  property.  Some  thrust  out  their  snuff- 
mulls  for  the  parting  pinch — others  tendered  the  dock - 
an-dorrach , or  parting  cup.  All  cried — “ Good-luck 
travel  out  with  you  and  come  home  with  you. — Give  yon 
luck  in  the  Saxon  market — brave  notes  in  the  leabhar-dfiv , 
(black  pocket-book,)  and  plenty  of  English  gold  in  the 
sporran  (pouch  of  goatskin.”) 

The  bonny  lasses  made  their  adieus  more  modestly, 
and  more  than  one,  it  was  said,  would  have  given  her  best 
brooch,  to  be  certain  that  it  was  upon  her  that  his  eye  last 
rested  as  he  turned  towards  his  road. 

Robin  Oig  had  just  given  the  preliminary  “ Hoo-hoo  /” 
to  urge  forward  the  loiterers  of  the  drove,  when  there  was 
a cry  behind  him. 

“ Stay,  Robin — bide  a blink.  Here  is  Janet  of  Tom- 
ahourich — auld  Janet,  your  father’s  sister.” 

“ Plague  on  her,  for  an  auld  Highland  witch  and  spae- 
wife,”  said  a farmer  from  the  Carse  of  Stirling ; “ she’ll 
cast  some  of  her  cantrips  on  the  cattle.” 

“ She  canna  do  that,”  said  another  sapient  of  the  same 
profession — “ Robin  Oig  is  no  the  lad  to  leave  any  of 
them,  without  tying  Saint  Mungo’s  knot  on  their  tails,  and 
that  will  put  to  her  speed  the  best  witch  that  ever  flew 
over  Dimayet  upon  a broomstick.” 

It  may  not  be  indifferent  to  the  reader  to  know,  that 
the  Highland  cattle  are  peculiarly  liable  to  be  taken , or 
infected,  by  spells  and  witchcraft,  which  judicious  people 
guard  against  by  knitting  knots  of  peculiar  complexity  on 
the  tuft  of  hair  which  terminates  the  animal’s  tail. 

But  the  old  woman  who  was  the  object  of  the  farmer’s 
suspicion  seemed  only  busied  about  the  drover,  without 


172 


CHRONICLES  OF 


paying  any  attention  to  the  flock.  Robin,  on  the  con- 
trary, appeared  rather  impatient  of  her  presence. 

“ What  auld-world  fancy,”  he  said,  “ has  brought  you 
so  early  from  the  ingle-side  this  morning,  Muhme  9 1 am 
sure  1 bid  you  good  even,  and  had  your  God-speed,  last 
night.” 

“ And  left  me  more  siller  than  the  useless  old  woman 
will  use  till  you  come  back  again,  bird  of  my  bosom,” 
said  the  sibyl.  “ But  it  is  little  I would  care  for  the  food 
that  nourishes  tne,  or  the  fire  that  warms  me,  or  for  God’s 
blessed  sun  itself,  if  aught  but  weal  should  happen  to  the 
grandson  of  my  father.  So  let  me  walk  the  deasil  round 
you,  that  you  may  go  safe  out  into  the  far  foreign  land, 
and  come  safe  home.” 

Robin  Oig  stopped,  half  embarrassed,  half  laughing, 
and  signing  to  those  around  that  he  only  complied  with 
the  old  woman  to  soothe  her  humour.  In  the  meantime, 
she  traced  around  him,  with  wavering  steps,  the  propitia- 
tion, which  some  have  thought  has  been  derived  from  the 
Druidical  mythology.  It  consists,  as  is  well  known,  in 
the  person  who  makes  the  deasil , walking  three  times 
round  the  person  who  is  the  object  of  the  ceremony, 
taking  care  to  move  according  to  the  course  of  the  sun. 
At  once,  however,  she  stopped  short,  and  exclaimed,  in 
a voice  of  alarm  and  horror,  “ Grandson  of  my  father, 
there  is  blood  on  your  hand.” 

“ Hush,  for  God’s  sake,  aunt,”  said  Robin  Oig  ; “ you 
will  bring  more  trouble  on  yourself  with  this  Taishataragh 
(second  sight)  than  you  will  be  able  to  get  out  of  for  many 
a day.” 

The  old  woman  only  repeated,  with  a ghastly  look, 
“ There  is  blood  on  your  hand,  and  it  is  English  blood. 
The  blood  of  the  Gael  is  richer  and  redder.  Let  us  see 
— Let  us ” 

Ere  Robin  Oig  could  prevent  her,  which,  indeed,  could 
only  have  been  by  positive  violence,  so  hasty  and  peremp- 
tory were  her  proceedings,  she  had  drawn  from  his  side 
the  dirk  which  lodged  in  the  folds  of  his  plaid,  and  held 
it  up,  exclaiming,  although  the  weapon  gleamed  clear  and 


THE  CANONCATE. 


173 


bright  in  the  sun,  “ Blood,  blood — Saxon  blood  again. 
Robin  Oig  M‘Combich,  go  not  this  day  to  England  !” 

“ Prutt,  trutt,”  answered  Robin  Oig,  “ that  will  never 
do  neither — it  would  be  next  thing  to  running  the  country. 
For  shame,  Muhme — give  me  the  dirk.  You  cannot  tell 
by  the  colour  the  difference  betwixt  the  blood  of  a black 
bullock  and  a white  one,  and  you  speak  of  knowing  Saxon 
from  Gaelic  blood.  All  men  have  their  blood  from  Adam, 
Muhme.  Give  me  my  skene-dhu,  and  let  me  go  on  my 
road.  I should  have  been  half  way  to  Stirling  brig  by 
this  time — Give  me  my  dirk,  and  let  me  go.” 

“ Never  will  I give  it  to  you,”  said  the  old  woman — 
“ Never  will  1 quit  my  hold  on  your  plaid,  unless  you 
promise  me  not  to  wear  that  unhappy  weapon.” 

The  women  around  him  urged  him  also,  saying  few  of 
his  aunt’s  words  fell  to  the  ground  ; and  as  the  Lowland 
farmers  continued  to  look  moodily  on  the  scene,  Robin 
Oig  determined  to  close  it  at  any  sacrifice. 

“ Well,  then,”  said  the  young  drover,  giving  the  scab- 
bard of  the  weapon  to  Hugh  Morrison,  “ you  Lovvlanders 
care  nothing  for  these  freats.  Keep  my  dirk  for  me.  I 
cannot  give  it  you,  because  it  was  my  father’s  ; but  your 
drove  follows  ours,  and  I am  content  it  should  be  in  your 
keeping,  not  in  mine. — Will  this  do,  Muhme  V' 

“ It  must,”  said  the  old  woman — “ that  is,  if  the 
Lowlander  is  mad  enough  to  carry  the  knife.” 

The  strong  westlandman  laughed  aloud, 

“ Good  wife,”  said  he,  “ I am  Hugh  Morrison  from 
Glenae,  come  of  the  Manly  Morrisons  of  auld  lang  syne, 
that  never  took  short  weapon  against  a man  in  their  lives. 
And  neither  needed  they  : They  had  their  broadswords, 
and  1 have  this  bit  supple  (showing  a formidable  cudgel) 
— for  dirking  ower  the  board,  I leave  that  to  John  High- 
landman, — Ye  needna  snort,  none  of  you  Highlanders, 
and  you  in  especial,  Robin.  I’ll  keep  the  bit  knife,  if 
you  are  feared  for  the  auld  spaewife’s  tale,  and  give  it 
back  to  you  whenever  you  want  it.” 

15*  VOL.  i. 


174 


CHRONICLES  OF 


Robin  was  not  particularly  pleased  with  some  part  of 
Hugh  Morrison’s  speech  ; but  he  had  learned  in  his 
travels  more  patience  than  belonged  to  his  Highland  con- 
stitution originally,  and  he  accepted  the  service  of  the 
descendant  of  the  Manly  Morrisons,  without  finding  fault 
with  the  rather  depreciating  manner  in  which  it  was 
offered. 

“ If  he  had  not  had  his  morning  in  his  head,  and  been 
but  a Dumfries-shire  hog  into  the  boot,  he  would  have 
spoken  more  like  a gentleman.  But  you  cannot  have 
more  of  a sow  but  a grumph.  It’s  shame  my  father’s 
knife  should  ever  slash  a haggis  for  the  like  of  him.” 

Thus  saying,  (but  saying  it  in  Gaelic,)  Robin  drove  on 
his  cattle,  and  waved  farewell  to  all  behind  him.  He  was 
in  the  greater  haste,  because  he  expected  to  join  at  Fal- 
kirk a comrade  and  brother  in  profession,  with  whom  he 
proposed  to  travel  in  company. 

Robin  Oig’s  chosen  friend  was  a young  Englishman, 
Harry  Wakefield  by  name,  well  known  at  every  northern 
market,  and  in  his  way  as  much  famed  and  honoured  as 
our  Highland  driver  of  bullocks.  He  was  nearly  six  feet 
high,  gallantly  formed  to  keep  the  rounds  at  Smithfield, 
Or  maintain  the  ring  at  a WTestling  match  ; and  although 
he  might  have  been  overmatched,  perhaps,  among  the 
regular  professors  of  the  Fancy,  yet,  as  a chance  custom- 
er, he  was  able  to  give  a bellyful  to  any  amateur  of  the 
pugilistic  art.  Doncaster  races  saw  him  in  h-is  glory, 
betting  his  guinea,  and  generally  successfully  ; nor  was 
there  a main  fought  in  Yorkshire,  the  feeders  being  per- 
sons of  celebrity,  at  which  he  was  not  to  be  seen,  if  busi- 
ness permitted.  But  though  a sprac/c  lad,  and  fond  of 
pleasure  and  its  haunts,  Harry  Wakefield  was  steady,  and 
not  the  cautious  Robin  Oig  M‘Combich  himself  was  more 
attentive  to  the  main  chance.  His  holidays  were  holi- 
days indeed  ; but  Ins  days  of  work  were  dedicated  to 
steady  and  persevering  labour.  In  countenance  and  tem- 
per, Wakefield  was  the  model  of  Old  England’s  merry 
yeomen,  whose  clothyard  shafts,  in  so  many  hundred  bat- 
tles, asserted  her  superiority  over  the  nations,  and  whose 


THE  CANONGATE. 


175 


good  sabres,  in  our  own  time,  are  her  cheapest  and  most 
assured  defence.  His  mirth  was  readily  excited  ; for, 
strong  in  limb  and  constitution,  and  fortunate  in  circum- 
stances, he  was  disposed  to  be  pleased  with  everything 
about  him  ; and  such  difficulties  as  he  might  occasionally 
encounter,  were,  to  a man  of  his  energy,  rather  matter  of 
amusement  than  serious  annoyance.  With  all  the  merits 
of  a sanguine  temper,  our  young  English  drover  was  not 
without  its  defects.  He  was  irascible,  and  sometimes  to 
the  verge  of  being  quarrelsome  ; and  perhaps  not  the  less 
inclined  to  bring  his  disputes  to  a pugilistic  decision,  be- 
cause he  found  few  antagonists  able  to  stand  up  to  him  in 
the  boxing  ring. 

It  is  difficult  to  say  how  Henry  Wakefield  and  Robin 
Gig  first  became  intimates  ; but  it  is  certain  a close  ac- 
quaintance had  taken  place  betwixt  them,  although  they 
had  apparently  few  common  topics  of  conversation  or  of 
interest,  so  soon  as  their  talk  ceased  to  be  of  bullocks. 
Robin  Oig,  indeed,  spoke  the  English  language  rather 
imperfectly  upon  any  other  topics  but  slots  and  kyloes,  and 
Harry  Wakefield  could  never  bring  his  broad  Yorkshire 
tongue  to  utter  a single  word  of  Gaelic.  It  was  in  vain 
Robin  spent  a whole  morning,  during  a walk  over  Minch- 
Moor,  in  attempting  to  leach  his  companion  to  utter,  with 
true  precision,  the  shibboleth  Llhu , which  is  the  Gaelic 
for  a calf.  From  Traquair  to  Murder-cairn,  the  hill  rung 
with  the  discordant  attempts  of  the  Saxon  upon  the  un- 
manageable monosyllable,  and  the  heartfelt  laugh  which 
followed  every  failure.  They  had,  however,  better  modes 
of  awakening  the  echoes  ; for  Wakefield  could  sing  many 
a ditty  to  the  praise  of  Moll,  Susan,  and  Cicely,  and  Ro- 
bin Oig  had  a particular  gift  at  whistling  interminable  pi- 
brochs  through  all  their  involutions,  and  what  was  more 
agreeable  to  bis  companion’s  southern  ear,  knew  many  of 
the  northern  airs,  both  lively  and  pathetic,  to  which  Wake- 
field learned  to  pipe  a bass.  Thus,  though  Robin  could 
hardly  have  comprehended  his  companion’s  stories  about 
horse-racing,  cock-fighting,  or  fox-hunting,  and  although 
his  own  legends  of  clan-fights  and  creaghs , varied  with 


176 


CHRONICLES  OF 


\ 

talk  of  Highland  goblins  and  fairy  folk,  would  have  been 
caviare  to  his  companion,  they  contrived  nevertheless  to 
find  a degree  of  pleasure  in  each  other’s  company,  which 
had  for  three  years  back  induced  them  to  join  company 
and  travel  together,  when  the  direction  of  their  journey 
permitted.  Each,  indeed,  found  his  advantage  in  tills 
companionship  ; for  where  could  the  Englishman  have 
found  a guide  through  the  Western  Highlands  like  Robin 
Gig  APCombich  c!  and  when  they  were  on  what  Harry 
called  the  right  side  of  the  Border,  his  patronage,  which 
was  extensive,  and  his  purse,  which  was  heavy,  were  at 
all  times  at  the  service  of  his  Highland  friend,  and  on 
many  occasions  his  liberality  did  him  genuine  yeoman’s 
service. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Were  ever  two  such  loving-  friends  ! — 

How  could  they  disagree  ? 

O thus  it  was,  he  loved  him  dear. 

And  thought  how  to  requite  him, 

And  having  no  friend  left  but  he, 

He  did  resolve  to  fight  him. 

Duke  upon  j Duke. 

The  pair  of  friends  had  traversed  with  their  usual  cor- 
diality the  grassy  wilds  of  Liddesdale,  and  crossed  the 
opposite  part  of  Cumberland,  emphatically  called  The 
Waste.  In  these  solitary  regions,  the  cattle  under  the 
charge  of  our  drovers  subsisted  themselves  cheaply,  by 
picking  their  food  as  they  went  along  the  drove-road,  or 
sometimes  by  the  tempting  opportunity  of  a start  and 
owerloup , or  invasion  of  the  neighbouring  pasture,  where 
an  occasion  presented  itself.  But  now  the  scene  chang- 
ed before  them  ; they  were  descending  towards  a fertile 
and  enclosed  country,  where  no  such  liberties  could  be 


THE  CANONGATE. 


177 


taken  with  impunity,  or  without  a previous  arrangement 
and  bargain  with  the  possessors  of  the  ground.  This  was 
more  especially  the  case,  as  a great  northern  fair  was  upon 
the  eve  of  taking  place,  where  both  the  Scotch  and  Eng- 
lish drover  expected  to  dispose  of  a part  of  their  cattle, 
which  it  was  desirable  to  produce  in  the  market,  rested 
and  in  good  order.  Fields  were  therefore  difficult  to  be 
obtained,  and  only  upon  high  terms.  This  necessity  oc- 
casioned a temporary  separation  betwixt  the  two  friends, 
who  wrent  to  bargain,  each  as  he  could,  for  the  separate 
accommodation  of  his  herd.  Unhappily  it  chanced  that 
both  of  them,  unknown  to  each  other,  thought  of  bargain- 
ing for  the  ground  they  wanted  on  the  property  of  a coun- 
try gentleman  of  some  fortune,  whose  estate  lay  in  the 
neighbourhood.  The  English  drover  applied  to  the  bailiff 
on  the  property,  who  was  known  to  him.  It  chanced  that 
the  Cumbrian  Squire,  who  had  entertained  some  suspi- 
cions of  his  manager’s  honesty,  was  taking  occasional 
measures  to  ascertain  how  far  they  were  well  founded,  and 
had  desired  that  any  inquiries  about  his  enclosures,  with 
a view  to  occupy  them  for  a temporary  purpose,  should  be 
referred  to  himself.  As,  however,  Mr.  Ireby  had  gone  the 
day  before  upon  a journey  of  some  miles’  distance  to  the 
northward,  the  bailiff  chose  to  consider  the  check  upon  his 
full  powers  as  for  the  time  removed,  and  concluded  that 
he  should  best  consult  his  master’s  interest,  and  perhaps 
his  own,  in  making  an  agreement  with  Harry  Wakefield. 
Meanwhile,  ignorant  of  what  his  comrade  was  doing, 
Robin  Oig,  on  his  side,  chanced  to  be  overtaken  by  a 
wrell-looked  smart  little  man  upon  a pony,  most  know- 
ingly hogged  and  cropped,  as  was  then  the  fashion,  the 
rider  wearing  tight  leather  breeches,  and  long-necked 
bright  spurs.  This  cavalier  asked  one  or  two  pertinent 
questions  about  markets  and  the  price  of  stock.  So 
Donald,  seeing  him  a well-judging  civil  gentleman,  took 
the  freedom  to  ask  him  whether  he  could  let  him  know 
if  there  was  any  grass-land  to  be  let  in  that  neighbour- 
hood, for  the  temporary  accommodation  of  his  drove. 
He  could  not  have  put  the  question  to  more  willing  ears. 


178 


CHRONICLES  OF 


The  gentleman  of  the  buckskins  was  the  proprietor,  with 
whose  bailiff  Harry  Wakefield  had  dealt,  or  was  in  the 
act  of  dealing. 

“ Thou  art  in  good  luck,  my  canny  Scot,”  said  Mr. 
Ireby,  “ to  have  spoken  to  me,  for  I see  thy  cattle  have 
done  their  day’s  work,  and  I have  at  my  disposal  the  only 
field  within  three  miles  that  is  to  be  let  in  these  parts.” 

“ The  drove  can  pe  gang  two,  three,  four  miles  very 
pratty  weel  indeed — ” said  the  cautious  Highlander  ; 
“ put  what  would  his  honour  pe  axing  for  the  peasts  pe 
the  head,  if  she  was  to  tak  the  park  for  twa  or  three 
days  ?” 

“ We  wont  differ,  Sawney,  if  you  let  me  have  sixstots 
for  winterers,  in  the  way  of  reason.” 

“ And  which  peasts  wad  your  honour  pe  for  having?” 

“ Why — let  me  see — the  two  black — the  dun  one — 
yon  doddy — him  with  the  twisted  horn— the  brock  it' — 
How  much  by  the  head  ?” 

“ Ah,”  said  Robin,  “ your  honour  is  a shudge — a real 
shudge — I couldna  have  set  off  the  pest  six  peasts  petter 
myself,  me  that  ken  them  as  if  they  were  my  pairns,  puir 
things.” 

“ Well,  how  much  per  head,  Sawney,”  continued  Mr. 
Ireby. 

“ It  was  high  markets  at  Doune  and  Falkirk,”  answer- 
ed Robin. 

iVnd  thus  the  conversation  proceeded,  until  they  had 
agreed  on  the  prix  juste  for  the  bullocks,  the  Squire 
throwing  in  the  temporary  accommodation  of  the  enclos- 
ure for  the  cattle  into  the  boot,  and  Robin  making,  as  he 
thought,  a very  good  bargain,  providing  the  grass  was  but 
tolerable.  The  Squire  walked  his  pony  alongside  of  the 
drove,  partly  to  show  him  the  way,  and  see  him  put  into 
possession  of  the  field,  and  partly  to  learn  the  latest 
news  of  the  northern  markets. 

They  arrived  at  the  field,  and  the  pasture  seemed  ex- 
cellent. But  what  was  their  surprise  when  they  saw  the 
bailiff  quietly  inducting  the  cattle  of  Harry  Wakefield  into 
the  grassy  Goshen  which  had  just  been  assigned  to  those 


179 


THE  CANONGATE. 

of  Robin  Oig  M'Combich  by  the  proprietor  himself. 
Squire  Ireby  set  spurs  to  his  horse,  clashed  up  to  his  ser- 
vant, and  learning  what  had  passed  between  the  parties, 
briefly  informed  the  English  drover  that  his  bailiff  had  let 
the  ground  without  his  authority,  and  that  he  might  seek 
grass  for  his  cattle  wherever  he  would,  since  he  was  to  get 
none  there.  At  the  same  time  he  rebuked  his  servant 
severely  for  having  transgressed  his  commands,  and  or- 
dered him  instantly  to  assist  in  ejecting  the  hungry  and 
weary  cattle  of  Harry  AVakefield,  which  were  just  begin- 
ning to  enjoy  a meal  of  unusual  plenty,  and  to  introduce 
those  of  his  comrade,  whom  the  English  drover  now  be- 
gan to  consider  as  a rival. 

The  feelings  which  arose  in  Wakefield’s  mind  would 
have  induced  him  to  resist  Mr.  Ireby’s  decision  ; but  every 
Englishman  has  a tolerably  accurate  sense  of  law  and 
justice,  and  John  Fleecebumpkin,  the  bailiff,  having  ac- 
knowledged that  he  had  exceeded  his  commission,  Wake- 
field saw  nothing  else  for  it  than  to  collect  his  hungry  and 
disappointed  charge,  and  drive  them  on  to  seek  quarters 
elsewhere.  Robin  Oig  saw  what  had  happened  with  re- 
gret, and  hastened  to  offer  to  his  English  friend  to  share 
with  him  the  disputed  possession.  But  Wakefield's  pride 
was  severely  hurt,  and  he  answered  disdainfully,  “ Take 
it  all,  man — take  it  all — never  make  two  bites  of  a cherry 
— thou  canst  talk  over  the  gentry,  and  blear  a plain  man’s 
eye — Out  upon  you,  man — I would  not  kiss  any  man’s 
dirty  latchels  for  leave  to  bake  in  his  oven.” 

Robin  Oig,  sorry  but  not  surprised  at  his  comrade’s 
displeasure,  hastened  to  entreat  his  friend  to  wait  but  an 
hour  till  he  had  gone  to  the  Squire’s  house  to  receive  pay- 
ment for  the  cattle  he  had  sold,  and  he  would  come  back 
and  help  him  to  drive  the  cattle  into  some  convenient 
place  of  rest,  and  explain  to  him  the  whole  mistake  they 
had  both  of  them  fallen  into.  But  the  Englishman  con- 
tinued indignant:  “ Thou  hast  been  selling,  hast  thou? 
Ay,  ay — thou  is  a cunning  lad  for  kenning  the  hours  of 
bargaining.  Go  to  the  devil  with  thyself,  for  l will  ne’er 


180 


CHRONICLES  OF 


see  thy  fause  loon’s  visage  again — thou  should  be  ashamed 
to  look  me  in  the  face.” 

“ I am  ashamed  to  look  no  man  in  the  face,”  said 
Robin  Oig,  something  moved  ; “ and,  moreover,  1 will 
look  you  in  the  face  this  blessed  day,  if  you  will  bide  at 
the  Clachan  down  yonder.” 

“ Mayhap  you  had  as  well  keep  away,”  said  his  com- 
rade ; and  turning  his  back  on  his  former  friend,  he  col- 
lected his  unwilling  associates,  assisted  by  the  bailiff,  who 
took  some  real  and  some  affected  interest  in  seeing  Wake- 
field accommodated. 

After  spending  some  time  in  negotiating  with  more  than 
one  of  the  neighbouring  farmers,  who  could  not,  or  would 
not,  afford  the  accommodation  desired,  Henry  Wakefield 
at  last,  and  in  his  necessity,  accomplished  his  point  by 
means  of  the  landlord  of  the  alehouse  at  which  Robin  Oig 
and  he  had  agreed  to  pass  the  night,  when  they  first  sep- 
arated from  each  other.  Mine  host  was  content  to  let 
him  turn  his  cattle  on  a piece  of  barren  moor,  at  a price 
little  less  than  the  bailiff  had  asked  for  the  disputed  en- 
closure ; and  the  wretchedness  of  the  pasture,  as  well  as 
the  price  paid  for  it,  were  set  down  as  exaggerations  of 
the  breach  of  faith  and  friendship  of  his  Scottish  crony. 
This  turn  of  Wakefield’s  passions  was  encouraged  by  the 
bailiff,  (who  had  his  own  reasons  for  being  offended 
against  poor  Robin,  as  having  been  the  unwitting  cause 
of  his  falling  into  disgrace  with  his  master,)  as  well  as  by 
the  innkeeper,  and  two  or  three  chance  guests,  who  sooth- 
ed the  drover  in  his  resentment  against  his  quondam  as- 
sociate,— some  from  the  ancient  grudge  against  the  Scots, 
which,  when  it  exists  anywhere,  is  to  be  found  lurking  in 
the  Border  counties,  and  some  from  the  general  love  of 
mischief,  which  characterizes  mankind  in  all  ranks  of  life, 
to  the  honour  of  Adam’s  children  be  it  spoken.  Good 
John  Barleycorn  also,  who  always  heightens  and  exagge- 
rates the  prevailing  passions,  be  they  angry  or  kindly,  was 
not  wanting  in  his  offices  on  this  occasion  ; and  confusion 
to  false  friends  and  hard  masters,  was  pledged  in  more 
than  one  tankard. 


THE  CANONGATE. 


181 


In  the  meanwhile  Mr.  Ireby  found  some  amusement 
in  detaining  the  northern  drover  at  his  ancient  ball.  He 
caused  a cold  round  of  beef  to  be  placed  before  the  Scot 
in  the  butler’s  pantry,  together  with  a foaming  tankard  of 
home-brewed,  and  took  pleasure  in  seeing  the  hearty  ap- 
petite with  which  these  unwonted  edibles  were  discussed 
by  Robin  Oig  M‘Combich.  The  Squire  himself  lighting 
his  pipe,  compounded  between  his  patrician  dignity  and 
his  love  of  agricultural  gossip,  by  walking  up  and  down 
while  he  conversed  with  his  guest. 

“ I passed  another  drove,”  said  the  Squire,  “ with  one 
of  your  countrymen  behind  them  — they  were  something 
less  beasts  than  your  drove,  doddies  most  of  them — a big 
man  was  with  them — none  of  your  kilts  though,  but  a de- 
cent pair  of  breeches — D’ye  know  who  he  may  be  9” 

“ Hout  ay — that  might,  could,  and  would  pe  Hughie 
Morrison — 1 didna  think  he  could  hae  peen  sae  weel  up. 
He  has  made  a day  on  us  ; put  his  Argyleshires  will  have 
wearied  shanks.  How  far  was  he  pehind 

“ 1 think  about  six  or  seven  miles,”  answered  the 
Squire,  “ for  I passed  them  at  the  Christenburv  Cragg, 
and  I overtook  you  at  the  Hollan  Bush.  If  his  beasts  be 
leg-weary,  he  will  be  maybe  selling  bargains.” 

u Na,  na,  Hughie  Morrison  is  no  the  man  for  pargains 
— ye  maun  come  to  some  Highland  body  like  Robin  Oig 
hersell  for  the  like  of  these — put  I maun  pe  wishing  you 
goot  night,  and  twenty  of  them  let  alane  ane,  and  I maun 
down  to  the  Clachan  to  see  if  the  lad  Henry  Waakfelt  is 
out  of  his  humdudgeons  yet.” 

The  party  at  the  alehouse  were  still  in  full  talk,  and  the 
treachery  of  Robin  Oig  still  the  theme  of  conversation, 
when  the  supposed  culprit  entered  the  apartment.  His 
arrival,  as  usually  happens  in  such  a case,  put  an  instant 
stop  to  the  discussion  of  which  he  had  furnished  the  sub- 
ject, and  he  was  received  by  the  company  assembled  with 
that  chilling  silence,  which,  more  than  a thousand  excla- 
mations, tells  an  intruder  that  he  is  unwelcome.  Sur- 
prised and  offended,  but  not  appalled  by  the  reception 
16  VOL.  i. 


182 


CHRONICLES  OF 


which  he  experienced,  Robin  entered  with  an  undaunted 
and  even  a haughty  air,  attempted  no  greeting  as  he  saw 
he  was  received  with  none,  and  placed  himself  by  the  side 
of  the  fire,  a little  apart  from  a table,  at  which  Harry 
Wakefield,  the  bailiff,  and  two  or  three  other  persons,  were 
sealed.  The  ample  Cumbrian  kitchen  would  have  af- 
forded plenty  of  room  even  for  a larger  separation. 

Robin,  thus  seated,  proceeded  to  light  his  pipe,  and 
call  for  a pint  of  twopenny. 

“ We  have  no  twopence  ale,”  ansvvered  Ralph  Heskett 
the  landlord  ; “ but  as  thou  find’st  thy  own  tobacco,  it’s 
like  thou  may’st  find  thy  own  liquor  too — it’s  the  wont  of 
thy  country,  1 wot.” 

“ Shame,  goodman,”  said  the  landlady,  a blithe  bustling 
housewife,  hastening  herself  to  supply  the  guest  with 
liquor — a Thou  knowest  well  enow  what  the  strange  man 
wants,  and  it’s  thy  trade  to  be  civil,  man.  Thou  shouldst 
know,  that  if  the  Scot  likes  a small  pot,  he  pays  a sure 
penny.” 

Without  taking  any  notice  of  this  nuptial  dialogue,  the 
Highlander  took  the  flagon  in  his  hand,  and  addressing 
the  company  generally,  drank  the  interesting  toast  of 
u Good  markets,”  to  the  party  assembled. 

“ The  better  that  the  wind  blew  fewer  dealers  from 
the  north,”  said  one  of  the  farmers,  “ and  fewer  High- 
land runts  to  eat  up  the  English  meadows.” 

“ Saul  of  my  pody,  put  you  are  wrang  there,  my 
friend,”  answered  Robin,  with  composure  ; “ it  is  your 
fat  Englishmen  that  eat  up  our  Scots  cattle,  puir  things.” 

“ I wish  there  was  a sumrnat  to  eat  up  their  drovers,” 
said  another  ; “ a plain  Englishman  canna  make  bread 
within  a kenning  of  them.” 

“ Or  an  honest  servant  keep  his  master’s  favour,  but 
they  will  come  sliding  in  between  him  and  the  sunshine,” 
said  the  bailiff. 

“ If  these  pe  jokes,”  said  Robin  Oig,  with  the  same 
composure,  “ there  is  ower  mony  jokes  upon  one  man.” 

“ It  is  no  joke,  but  downright  earnest,”  said  the  bailiff. 
“ Harkye,  Mr.  Robin  Ogg,  or  whatever  is  your  name,  it’s 


TIIE  CANONGATE. 


183 


right  we  should  tell  you  that  we  are  all  of  one  opinion, 
and  that  is,  that  you,  Mr.  Robin  Ogg,  have  behaved  to 
our  friend  Mr.  Harry  Wakefield  here,  like  a raff  and  a 
blackguard.5’ 

“ Nae  doubt,  nae  doubt,”  answered  Robin,  with  great 
composure  ; “ and  you  are  a set  of  very  feeling  judges, 
for  whose  prains  or  pehaviour  I wad  not  gie  a pinch  of 
sneeshing.  If  Mr.  Harry  Waakfelt  kens  where  he  is 
vyranged,  he  kens  where  he  may  be  lighted.” 

“ He  speaks  truth,”  said  Wakefield,  who  had  listened 
to  what  passed,  divided  between  the  offence  which  he 
had  taken  at  Robin’s  late  behaviour,  and  the  revival  of 
his  habitual  habits  of  friendship. 

He  now  rose,  and  went  towards  Robin,  who  got  up  from 
his  seat  as  he  approached,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

“ That’s  riglit,  Harry — go  it — serve  him  out,”  re- 
sounded on  all  sides — “ tip  him  the  nailer — show  him 
the  mill.” 

“ Hold  your  peace  all  of  you,  and  be ,”  said 

Wakefield  ; and  then  addressing  his  comrade,  he  took 
him  by  the  extended  hand,  with  something  alike  of  respect 
and  defiance.  “ Robin,”  he  said,  “ thou  hast  used  me 
ill  enough  this  day  ; but  if  you  mean,  like  a frank  fellow, 
to  shake  hands,  and  take  a tussle  for  love  on  the  sod,  why 
I’ll  forgie  thee,  man,  and  we  shall  be  better  friends  than 
ever.” 

“ And  would  it  not  pe  petter  to  be  cood  friends  without 
more  of  the  matter  9”  said  Robin  ; “ we  will  be  much 
petter  friendships  with  our  panes  hale  than  proken.” 

Harry  Wakefield  dropped  the  hand  of  his  friend,  or 
rather  threw  it  from  him. 

“ 1 did  not  think  I had  been  keeping  company  for  three 
years  with  a coward.” 

“ Coward  pelongs  to  none  of  my  name,”  said  Robin, 
whose  eyes  began  to  kindle,  but  keeping  the  command  of 
his  tempe-r.  “ It  was  no  coward’s  legs  or  hands,  Harry 
Waakfelt,  that  drew  you  out  of  the  fords  of  Frew,  when 
you  was  drifting  ou'er  the  plack  rock,  and  every  eel  in  the 
river  expected  his  share  of  you.” 


184 


CHRONICLES  OF 


“ And  that  is  true  enough,  too,”  said  the  Englishman, 
struck  by  the  appeal. 

“ Adzooks  !”  exclaimed  the  bailiff — “ sure  Harry 
Wakefield,  the  nattiest  lad  at  Whitson  Tryste,  Wooler 
Fair,  Carlisle  Sands,  or  Stagshavv  Bank,  is  not  going  to 
show  white  feather  ? Ah,  this  comes  of  living  so  long 
with  kilts  and  bonnets — men  forget  the  use  of  their 
daddies.” 

“ I may  teach  you,  Master  Fleecebumpkin,  that  I have 
not  lost  the  use  of  mine,”  said  Wakefield,  and  then  went 
on.  “ This  will  never  do,  Robin.  We  must  have  a turn- 
up, or  we  shall  be  the  talk  of  the  country  side.  I’ll  be 

d d if  I hurt  thee — I’ll  put  on  the  gloves  gin  thou  like. 

Come,  stand  forward  like  a man.” 

“ To  pe  peaten  like  a dog,”  said  Robin  ; “ is  there 
any  reason  in  that  If  you  think  I have  done  you  wrong, 
I’ll  go  before  your  shudge,  though  I neither  know  his  law 
nor  his  language.” 

A general  cry  of  “ No,  no— no  law,  no  lawyer  ! a 
bellyful  and  be  friends,”  was  echoed  by  the  bystanders. 

“ But,”  continued  Robin,  “ if  I am  to  fight,  1 have  no 
skill  to  fight  like  a jackanapes,  with  hands  and  nails.’* 

“ How  would  you  fight  then  9”  said  his  antagonist  ; 
“ though  l am  thinking  it  would  be  hard  to  bring  you  to 
the  scratch  anyhow.” 

“ I would  fight  with  proadswords,  and  sink  point  on  the 
first  plood  drawn- like  a gentlemans.” 

A loud  shout  of  laughter  followed  the  proposal,  which 
indeed  had  rather  escaped  from  poor  Robin’s  swelling 
heart,  than  been  the  dictates  of  his  sober  judgment. 

“ Gentleman,  quotha  !”  was  echoed  on  all  sides,  with 
a shout  of  unextinguishable  laughter  ; “ a very  pretty 
gentleman,  God  wot — Canst  get  two  swords  for  the  gen- 
tleman to  fight  with,  Ralph  Heskelt  ?” 

“ No,  but  I can  send  to  the  armoury  at  Carlisle,  and 
lend  them  two  forks,  to  be  making  shift  with  in  the  mean- 
time.” 


THE  CANON GATE. 


185 


“ Tush,  man,”  said  another,  “ the  bonny  Scots  come 
into  the  world  with  the  blue  bonnet  on  their  heads,  and 
dirk  and  pistol  at  their  belt.” 

“ Best  send  post,”  said  Mr.  Fleecebumpkin,  “ to  the 
Squire  of  Corby  Castle,  to  come  and  stand  second  to  the 
gentleman .” 

In  the  midst  of  this  torrent  of  general  ridicule,  the 
Highlander  instinctively  griped  beneath  the  folds  of  his 
plaid. 

“ But  it’s  better  not,”  he  said  in  his  own  language. 
“ A hundred  curses  on  the  swine-eaters,  who  know  neither 
decency  nor  civility  !” 

“ Make  room,  the  pack  of  you,”  he  said,  advancing  to 
the  door. 

But  his  former  friend  interposed  his  sturdy  bulk,  and 
opposed  his  leaving  the  house  ; and  when  Robin  Oig  at- 
tempted to  make  his  way  by  force,  he  hit  him  down  on 
the  floor,  with  as  much  ease  as  a boy  bowls  down  a 
nine-pin. 

“ A ring,  a ring  !”  was  now  shouted,  until  the  dark 
rafters,  and  the  hams  that  hung  on  them,  trembled  again, 
and  the  very  platters  on  the  bink  clattered  against  each 
other.  “ Well  done,  Harry” — “ Give  it  him  home,  Har- 
ry”— “ Take  care  of  him  now — he  sees  his  own  blood  !” 

Such  were  the  exclamations,  while  the  Highlander, 
starting  from  the  ground,  all  his  coldness  and  caution  lost 
in  frantic  rage,  sprung  at  his  antagonist  with  the  fury,  the 
activity,  and  the  vindictive  purpose,  of  an  incensed  tiger- 
cat.  But  when  could  rage  encounter  science  and  tem- 
per 9 Robin  Oig  again  went  down  in  the  unequal  contest ; 
and  as  the  blow  was  necessarily  a severe  one,  he  lay  mo- 
tionless on  the  floor  of  the  kitchen.  The  landlady  ran 
to  offer  some  aid,  but  Mr.  Fleecebumpkin  would  not  per- 
mit her  to  approach. 

“ Let  him  alone,”  he  said,  “ he  will  come  to  within 
time,  and  come  up  to  the  scratch  again.  He  has  not  got 
half  his  broth  yet.’* 

16*  VOL.  i. 


186 


CHRONICLES  OE 


“ He  has  got  all  I mean  to  give  him,  though,”  said  his 
antagonist,  whose  heart  began  to  relent  towards  his  old 
associate  ; “ and  I would- rather  by  half  give  the  rest  to 
yourself,  Mr.  Fleecebumpkin,  for  you  pretend  to  know  a 
thing  or  two,  and  Robin  had  not  art  enough  even  to  peel 
before  setting  to,  but  fought  with  his  plaid  dangling  about 
him. — Stand  up,  Robin,  my  man  ! all  friends  now  ; and 
let  me  hear  the  man  that  will  speak  a word  against  you, 
or  your  country,  for  your  sake.” 

Robin  Oig  was  still  under  the  dominion  of  his  passion, 
and  eager  to  renew  the  onset ; but  being  withheld  on  the 
one  side  by  the  peace-making  Dame  Heskett,  and  on  the 
other,  aware  that  Wakefield  no  longer  meant  to  renew  the 
combat,  his  fury  sunk  into  gloomy  sullenness. 

“ Come,  come,  never  grudge  so  much  at  it,  man,”  said 
the  brave-spirited  Englishman,  with  the  placability  of  his 
country,  “ shake  hands,  and  we  will  be  better  friends 
than  ever.” 

“ Friends  !”  exclaimed  Robin  Oig  with  strong  empha- 
sis— “ friends  !— Never.  Look  to  yourself,  Harry  W.aak- 
felt  ” 

“ Then  the  curse  of  Cromwell  on  your  proud  Scots 
stomach,  as  the  man  says  in  the  play,  and  you  may  do 
your  worst,  and  be  d ; for  one  man  can  say  noth- 

ing more  to  another  after  a tussle,  than  that  he  is  sorry 
for  it.” 

On  these  terms  the  friends  parted  ; Robin  Oig  drew 
out,  in  silence,  a piece  of  money,  threw  it  on  the  table, 
and  then  left  the  alehouse.  But  turning  at  the  door,  he 
shook  his  hand  at  Wakefield,  pointing  with  his  fore-finger 
upwards,  in  a manner  which  might  imply  either  a threat 
or  a caution.  He  then  disappeared  in  the  moonlight. 

Some  words  passed  after  his  departure,  between  the 
bailiff,  who  piqued  himself  on  being  a little  of  a bully,  and 
Harry  Wakefield,  who,  with  generous  inconsistency,  was> 
now  not  indisposed  to  begin  a new  combat  in  defence  of 
Robin  Oig’s  reputation,  “ although  he  could  not  use  his 
daddies  like  an  Englishman,  as  it  did  not  come  natural  to 
him.”  But  Dame  Heskett  prevented  this  second  quarrel 


THE  CANONGATE. 


187 


from  coming  to  a head  by  her  peremptory  interference. 
44  There  should  be  no  more  fighting  in  her  house,”  she 
said  ; 44  there  had  been  too  much  already. — And  you, 
Mr.  Wakefield,  may  live  to  learn,”  she  added,  “ what  it 
is  to  make  a deadly  enemy  out  of  a good  friend.” 

41  Pshaw,  dame  ! Robin  Oig  is  an  honest  fellow,  and 
will  never  keep  malice.” 

64  Do  not  trust  to  that — you  do  not  know  the  dour  tem- 
per of  the  Scotch,  though  you  have  dealt  with  them  so 
often.  1 have  a right  to  know  them,  my  mother  being  a 
Scot.” 

44  And  so  is  well  seen  on  her  daughter,”  said  Ralph 
Heskett. 

This  nuptial  sarcasm  gave  the  discourse  another  turn ; 
fresh  customers  entered  the  tap-room  or  kitchen,  and 
others  left  it.  The  conversation  turned  on  the  expected 
markets,  and  the  report  of  prices  from  different  parts  both 
of  Scotland  and  England — treaties  were  commenced,  and 
Harry  Wakefield  was  lucky  enough  to  find  a chap  for  a 
part  of  his  drove,  and  at  a very  considerable  profit  ; an 
event  of  consequence  more  than  sufficient  to  blot  out  all 
remembrances  of  the  unpleasant  scuffle  in  the  earlier  part 
of  the  day.  Rut  there  remained  one  party  from  whose 
mind  that  recollection  could  not  have  been  wiped  away 
by  possession  of  every  head  of  cattle  betwixt  Esk  and 
Eden. 

This  was  Robin  Oig  M‘Combich. — 44  That  I should 
have  had  no  weapon,”  he  said,  44  and  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life  ! — Blighted  be  the  tongue  that  bids  the  Highlander 
part  with  the  dirk— the  dirk — ha  ! the  English  blood  ! — 
My  muhme’s  word — -when  did  her  word  fall  to  the 
ground  7” 

The  recollection  of  the  fatal  prophecy  confirmed  the 
deadly  intention  which  instantly  sprang  up  in  his  mind. 

44  Ha  ! Morrison  cannot  be  many  miles  behind  ; and  if 
it  were  an  hundred,  what  then  !” 

His  impetuous  spirit  had  now  a fixed  purpose  and  mo- 
tive of  action,  and  he  turned  the  light  foot  of  his  country 
towards  the  wilds,  through  which  he  knew,  by  Mr.  lreby’s 


188 


CHRONICLES  OF 


report,  that  Morrison  was  advancing.  His  mind  was 
wholly  engrossed  by  the  sense  of  injury — injury  sustain- 
ed from  a friend  ; and  by  the  desire  of  vengeance  on  one 
whom  he  now  accounted  his  most  bitter  enemy.  The 
treasured  ideas  of  self-importance  and  self-opinion — of 
ideal  birth  and  quality,  had  become  more  precious  to  him, 
(like  the  hoard  to  the  miser,)  because  he  could  only  enjoy 
them  in  secret.  But  that  hoard  was  pillaged,  the  idols 
which  he  had  secretly  worshipped  had  been  desecrated 
and  profaned.  Insulted,  abused,  and  beaten,  lie  was  no 
longer  worthy,  in  his  own  opinion,  of  the  name  he  bore, 
or  the  lineage  which  he  belonged  to — nothing  was  left  to 
him — nothing  but  revenge  ; and,  as  the  reflection  added 
a galling  spur  to  every  step,  he  determined  it  should  be 
as  sudden  and  signal  as  the  offence. 

When  Robin  Oig  left  the  door  of  the  alehouse,  seven 
or  eight  English  miles  at  least  lay  betwixt  Morrison  and 
him.  The  advance  of  the  former  was  slow,  limited  by 
the  sluggish  pace  of  his  cattle  ; the  last  left  behind  him 
stubble-field  and  hedge-row,  crag  and  dark  heath,  all  glit- 
tering with  frost-rhime  in  the  broad  November  moonlight, 
at  the  rate  of  six  miles  an  hour.  And  now  the  distant 
lowing  of  Morrison’s  cattle  is  heard  ; and  now  they  are 
seen  creeping  like  moles  in  size  and  slowness  of  motion 
on  the  broad  face  of  the  moor  ; and  now  he  meets  them 
— passes  them,  and  stops  their  conductor. 

“ May  good  betide  us,”  said  the  Southlands- — “ Is 
this  you,  Robin  IVKCombich,  or  your  wraith  V ’ 

“ It  is  Robin  Oig  M^Combich,”  answered  the  High- 
lander, “ and  it  is  not. — But  never  mind  that,  put  pe  giving 
me  the  skene-dbu.” 

“ What  ! you  are  for  back  to  the  Highlands — The 
devil  ! — Have  you  selt  all  off' before  the  fair  ? This  beats 
all  for  quick  markets.” 

“ I have  not  sold — 1 am  not  going  north — May  pe  I 
will  never  go  north  again. — Give  me  pack  my  dirk,  Hugh 
Morrison,  or  there  will  pe  words  petween  us.” 

“ Indeed,  Robin,  I’ll  be  better  advised  or  I gie  it  back 
to  you — it  is  a vvanchancy  weapon  in  a Highlandman’s 


TIIE  CANONGATE. 


189 


hand,  and  I am  thinking  you  will  be  about  some  barns- 
breaking.” 

“ Prutt,  trutt  ! let  me  have  my  weapon,”  said  Robin 
Oig  impatiently. 

“ Hooly  and  fairly,”  said  his  well-meaning  friend. 
“ I’ll  tell  you  what  will  do  better  than  these  dirking  do- 
ings— Ye  ken  Highlander  and  Lowlander,  and  Border- 
men,  are  a’  ae  man’s  bairns  when  you  are  over  the  Scots 
dyke.  See,  the  Eskdale  callants,  and  fighting  Charlie  of 
Liddesdale,  and  the  Lockerby  lads,  and  t lie  four  Dandies 
of  Lustruther,  and  a wheen  mair  grey  plaids,  are  coming 
up  behind  ; and  if  you  are  wranged,  there  is  the  hand  of 
a Manly  Morrison,  we’ll  see  you  righted,  if  Carlisle  and 
Stanwix  baith  took  up  the  feud.” 

“ To  tell  you  the  truth,”  said  Robin  Oig,  desirous  of 
eluding  the  suspicions  of  his  friend,  “ I have  enlisted  with 
a party  of  the  Black  Watch,  and  must  march  off  to-mor- 
row morning.” 

“ Enlisted  ! Were  you  mad  or  drunk  ? — You  must  buy 
yourself  off- — I can  lend  you  twenty  notes,  and  twenty  to 
that,  if  the  drove  sell.” 

“ 1 thank  you — thank  ye,  Hughie  ; but  I go  with  good 
will  the  gate  that  I am  going, — so  the  dirk — the  dirk  !” 

“ There  it  is  for  you  then,  since  less  wunna  serve. 
But  think  on  what  1 was  saying. — Waes  me,  it  will  be 
sair  news  in  the  braes  of  Balquidder,  that  Robin  Oig 
M’Combich  should  have  run  an  ill  gate,  and  ta’en  on.” 

“ 111  news  in  Balquidder,  indeed  !”  echoed  poor  Rob- 
in ; “ put  Cot  speed  you,  Hughie,  and  send  you  good 
marcats.  Ye  wdnna  meet  with  Robin  Oig  again  either  at 
tryste  or  fair.” 

So  saying,  he  shook  hastily  the  hand  of  his  acquaint- 
ance, and  set  out  in  the  direction  from  which  he  had  ad- 
vanced, with  the  spirit  of  his  former  pace. 

“ There  is  something  wrang  with  the  lad,”  muttered 
the  Morrison  to  himself  ; “ but  we  will  maybe  see  better 
into  it  the  morn’s  morning.” 

But  long  ere  the  morning  dawned,  the  catastrophe  of 
our  tale  had  taken  place.  It  was  two  hours  after  the 


190 


CHRONICLES  OF 


affray  had  happened,  and  it  was  totally  forgotten  by  almost 
every  one,  when  Robin  Oig  returned  to  Heskett’s  inn. 
The  place  was  filled  at  once  by  various  sorts  of  men,  and 
with  noises  corresponding  to  their  character.  There  were 
the  grave,  low  sounds  of  men  engaged  in  busy  traffic, 
with  the  laugh,  the  song,  and  the  riotous  jest  of  those  who 
had  nothing  to  do  but  to  enjoy  themselves.  Among  the 
last  was  Harry  Wakefield,  who,  amidst  a grinning  group 
of  smock-frocks,  hobnailed  shoes,  and  jolly  English  physi- 
ognomies, was  trolling  forth  the  old  ditty, 

11  What  though  my  name  be  Roger, 

Who  drives  the  plough  and  cart — r 

when  he  was  interrupted  by  a well  known  voice,  saying  in 
a high  and  stern  voice,  marked  by  the  sharp  Highland  ac- 
cent, “ Harry  Waakfelt — if  you  be  a man,  stand  up  !” 

“ What  is  the  matter  ? — what  is  it  V9  the  guests  de- 
manded of  each  other. 

“ It  is  only  a d d Scotsman,”  said  Fleecebumpkin, 

who  was  by  this  time  very  drunk,  u whom  Harry  Wake- 
field helped  to  his  broth  to-day,  who  is  now  come  to  have 
his  cauld  kail  hett  again.” 

“ Harry  Waakfelt,”  repeated  the  same  ominous  sum- 
mons, “ stand  up,  if  you  be  a man  !” 

There  is  something  in  the  tone  of  deep  and  concen- 
trated passion,  which  attracts  attention  and  imposes  awe, 
even  by  the  very  sound.  The  guests  shrunk  back  on 
every  side,  and  gazed  at  the  Highlander,  as  he  stood  in 
the  middle  of  them,  his  brows  bent,  and  his  features  rigid 
with  resolution. 

“ I will  stand  up  with  all  my  heart,  Robin,  my  boy,  but 
it  shall  be  to  shake  hands  with  you,  and  drink  down  all 
unkindness.  It  is  not  the  fault  of  your  heart,  man,  that 
you  don’t  know  how  to  clench  your  hands.” 

By  this  time  he  stood  opposite  to  his  antagonist ; his 
open  and  unsuspecting  look  strangely  contrasted  with  the 
stern  purpose,  which  gleamed  wild,  dark,  and  vindictive 
in  the  eyes  of  the  Highlander. 


THE  CANONGATE. 


191 


“ ’Tis  not  thy  fault,  man,  that,  not  having  the  luck 
to  be  an  Englishman,  thou  canst  not  light  more  than  a 
school-girl.” 

“ 1 can  fight,”  answered  Robin  Oig  sternly,  but  calmly, 
“ and  you  shall  know  it.  You,  Harry  Waakfelt,  show- 
ed me  to-day  how  the  Saxon  churls  fight — I show  you 
now  how  the  Highland  Dunniewassal  fights.” 

He  seconded  the  word  with  the  action,  and  plunged 
the  dagger,  which  he’ suddenly  displayed,  into  the  broad 
breast  of  the  English  yeoman,  with  such  fatal  certainty 
and  force,  that  the  hilt  made  a hollow  sound  against  the 
breast-bone,  and  the  double-edged  point  split  the  very 
heart  of  his  victim.  Harry  Wakefield  fell,  and  expired 
with  a single  groan.  His  assassin  next  seized  the  bailiff 
by  the  collar,  and  offered  the  bloody  poniard  to  his  throat, 
whilst  dread  and  surprise  rendered  the  man  incapable  of 
defence. 

“ It  were  very  just  to  lay  you  beside  him,”  he  said, 
“ but  the  blood  of  a base  pick-thank  shall  never  mix  on 
my  father’s  dirk,  with  that  of  a brave  man.” 

As  he  spoke,  he  cast  the  man  from  him  with  so  much 
force  that  he  fell  on  the  floor,  while  Robin,  with  his 
other  hand,  threw  the  fatal  weapon  into  the  blazing  turf- 
fire. 

“ There,”  he  said,  “ take  me  who  likes— and  let  fire 
cleanse  blood  if  it  can.” 

The  pause  of  astonishment  still  continuing,  Robin  Oig 
asked  for  a peace-officer,  and  a constable  having  stepped 
out,  he  surrendered  himself  to  his  custody. 

“ A bloody  night’s  work  you  have  made  of  it,”  said 
the  constable. 

“ Your  own  fault,”  said  the  Highlander.  “ Had 
you  kept  his  hands  off  me  twa  hours  since,  he  would 
have  been  now  as  well  and  merry  as  he  was  twa  minutes 
since.” 

“ It  must  be  sorely  answered,”  said  the  peace-officer. 

“ Never  you  mind  that — death  pays  all  debts  ; it  will 
pay  that  too.” 


192 


CHRONICLES  OF 


The  horror  of  ihe  bystanders  began  now  to  give  way 
to  indignation  ; and  the  sight  of  a favourite  companion 
murdered  in  the  midst  of  them,  the  provocation  being,  in 
their  opinion,  so  utterly  inadequate  to  the  excess  of  ven- 
geance, might  have  induced  them  to  kill  the  perpetrator 
of  the  deed  even  upon  the  very  spot.  The  constable, 
however,  did  his  duty  on  this  occasion,  and  with  the  as- 
sistance of  some  of  the  more  reasonable  persons  present, 
procured  horses  to  guard  the  prisoner  to  Carlisle,  to  abide 
his  doom  at  the  next  assizes.  While  the  escort  was  pre- 
paring, the  prisoner  neither  expressed  the  least  interest, 
nor  attempted  the  slightest  reply.  Only,  before  he  was 
carried  from  the  fatal  apartment,  he  desired  to  look  at 
the  dead  body,  which,  raised  from  the  floor,  had  been 
deposited  upon  the  large  table,  (at  the  head  of  which 
Harry  Wakefield  had  presided  but  a few  minutes  before, 
full  of  life,  vigour,  and  animation,)  until  the  surgeons 
should  examine  the  mortal  wound.  The  face  of  the 
corpse  was  decently  covered  with  a napkin.  To  the  sur- 
prise and  horror  of  the  bystanders,  which  displayed  itself 
in  a general  Ah  ! drawn  through  clenched  teeth  and  half- 
shut lips,  Robin  Oig  removed  the  cloth,  and  gazed  with 
a mournful  but  steady  eye  on  the  lifeless  visage,  which 
had  been  so  lately  animated,  that  the  smile  of  good  hu- 
moured confidence  in  his  own  strength,  of  conciliation  at 
once,  and  contempt  towards  his  enemy,  still  curled  his 
lip.  While  those  present  expected  that  the  wound,  which 
had  so  lately  flooded  the  apartment  with  gore,  would  send 
forth  fresh  streams  at  the  touch  of  the  homicide,  Robin 
Oig  replaced  the  covering,  with  the  brief  exclamation — 
“ He  was  a pretty  man  !” 

My  story  is  nearly  ended.  The  unfortunate  High- 
lander stood  his  trial  at  Carlisle.  1 was  myself  present, 
and  as  a young  Scottish  lawyer,  or  barrister  at  least,  and 
reputed  a man  of  some  quality,  the  politeness  of  the  Sher- 
iff of  Cumberland  offered  me  a place  on  the  bench.  The 
facts  of  the  case  were  proved  in  the  manner  I have  related 
them  ; and  whatever  might  be  at  first  the  prejudice  of 
the  audience  against  a crime  so  un-English  as  that  of 


TIIE  CANONGATE. 


193 


assassination  from  revenge,  yet  when  the  rooted  national 
prejudices  of  the  prisoner  had  been  explained,  which 
made  him  consider  himself  as  stained  with  indelible  dis- 
honour, when  subjected  to  personal  violence  ; when  his 
previous  patience,  moderation,  and  endurance,  were  con- 
sidered, the  generosity  of  the  English  audience  was  in- 
clined to  regard  his  crime  as  the  wayward  aberration  of  a 
false  idea  of  honour  rather  than  as  flowing  from  a heart 
naturally  savage,  or  perverted  by  habitual  vice.  1 shall 
never  forget  the  charge  of  the  venerable  Judge  to  the 
jury,  although  not  at  that  time  liable  to  be  much  affected 
either  by  that  which  was  eloquent  or  pathetic. 

“ We  have  had,”  he  said,  “ in  t lie  previous  part  of 
our  duty,  (alluding  to  some  former  trials,)  to  discuss 
crimes  which  infer  disgust  and  abhorrence,  while  they 
call  down  the  well-merited  vengeance  of  the  law.  It  is 
now  our  still  more  melancholy  duty  to  apply  its  salutary 
though  severe  enactments  to  a case  of  a very  singular 
character,  in  which  the  crime  (for  a crime  it  is,  and  a deep 
one)  arose  less  out  of  the  malevolence  of  the  heart,  than 
the  error  of  the  understanding — less  from  any  idea  of  com- 
mitting wrong,  than  from  an  unhappily  perverted  notion 
of  that  which  is  right.  Here  we  have  two  men,  highly 
esteemed,  it  has  been  stated,  in  their  rank  of  life,  and  at- 
tached it  seems,  to  each  other  as  friends,  one  of  whose  lives 
has  been  already  sacrificed  to  a punctilio,  and  the  other  is 
about  to  prove  the  vengeance  of  the  offended  laws;  and 
yet  both  may  claim  our  commiseration  at  least,  as  men 
acting  in  ignorance  of  each  other’s  national  prejudices, 
and  unhappily  misguided  rather  than  voluntarily  erring 
from  the  path  of  right  conduct. 

“ In  the  original  cause  of  the  misunderstanding,  we 
must  in  justice  give  the  right  to  the  prisoner  at  t he  bar. 
He  had  acquired  possession  e,f  the  enclosure,  which  was 
the  obicc:.  of  competition,  hv  a lega I contract  until  the  pro- 
prietor Ah*.  I re  by  ; am?  v«-g  ^ accosted  w ath  reproaches 
undeserved  in  thems*  !v  e doubtless  to  a tem- 
per at  least  suffice  lie  offered 

17  VOL.  ? 


194 


CHRONICLES  OF 


notwithstanding  to  yield  up  half  his  acquisition,  for  the 
sake  of  peace  and  good  neighbourhood,  and  his  amica- 
ble proposal  was  rejected  will)  scorn.  Then  follows  the 
scene  at  Mr.  Heskett  the  publican’s,  and  you  will  observe 
how  the  stranger  was  treated  by  the  deceased,  and  1 am 
sorry  to  observe,  by  those  around,  who  seem  to  have 
urged  him  in  a manner  which  was  aggravating  in  the 
highest  degree.  While  he  asked  for  peace  and  for  com- 
position, and  offered  submission  to  a magistrate,  or  to  a 
mutual  arbiter,  the  prisoner  was  insulted  by  a whole  com- 
pany, who  seem  on  this  occasion  to  have  forgotten  the 
national  maxim  of  4 fair  play  and  while  attempting  to 
escape  from  the  place  in  peace,  he  was  intercepted,  struck 
down,  and  beaten  to  the  effusion  of  his  blood. 

“ Gentlemen  of  the  Jury,  it  was  with  some  impatience 
that  1 heard  my  learned  brother,  who  opened  the  case  for 
the  crown,  give  an  unfavourable  turn  to  the  prisoner’s 
conduct  on  this  occasion.  He  said  the  prisoner  was 
afraid  to  encounter  his  antagonist  in  fair  fight,  or  to  submit 
to  the  laws  of  the  ring  ; and  that  therefore,  like  a cowardly 
Italian,  he  had  recourse  to  his  fatal  stiletto,  to  murder  the 
man  whom  he  dared  not  meet  in  manly  encounter.  I 
observed  the  prisoner  shrink  from  this  part  of  the  accu- 
sation with  the  abhorrence  natural  to  a brave  man  ; and 
as  1 would  wish  to  make  my  words  impressive,  when  I 
point  his  real  crime,  I must  secure  his  opinion  of  my  im- 
partiality, by  rebutting  every  thing  that  seems  to  me  a 
false  accusation.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  prisoner 
is  a man  of  resolution — too  much  resolution — I wish  to 
Heaven  that  he  had  less,  or  rather  that  he  had  had  a better 
education  to  regulate  it. 

“ Gentlemen,  as  to  the  laws  my  brother  talks  of,  they 
may  be  known  in  the  Bull-ring,  or  the  Bear-garden,  or 
the  Cockpit,  but  they  are  not  known  here.  Or,  if  they 
should  be  so  far  admitted  as  furnishing  a species  of  proof, 
that  no  malice  was  intended  in  this  sort  of  combat,  from 
which  fatal  accidents  do  sometimes  arise,  it  can  only  be 
so  admitted  when  both  parties  are  in  pari  casu , equally 
acquainted  with,  and  equally  walling  to  refer  themselves  to, 


TIIE  CANON  HA 


i 95. 


that  species  of  arbitrement.  But  will  it  be  contended 
that  a man  of  superior  rank  and  education  is  to  be  sub- 
jected, or  is  obliged  to  subject  himself,  to  this  coarse  and 
brutal  strife,  perhaps  in  opposition  to  a younger,  stronger, 
or  more  skilful  opponent?  Certainly  even  the  pugilistic 
code,  if  founded  upon  the  fair  play  of  Merry  Gib  Bog- 
land,  as  my  brother  alleges  it  to  be,  can  contain  nothing 
so  preposterous.  And,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  if  the 
laws  would  support  an  English  gentleman,  wearing,  we 
will  suppose,  his  sword,  in  defending  himself  by  iorce 
against  a violent  personal  aggression  of  the  nature  offered 
to  this  prisoner,  they  will  not  less  protect  a foreigner  and 
a stranger,  involved  in  the  same  unpleasing  circumstances. 
If,  therefore,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  when  thus  pressed 
by  a vis  major , the  object  of  obloquy  to  a whole  compa- 
ny, and  of  direct  violence  from  one  at  least,  and  as  he 
might  reasonably  apprehend,  from  more,  the  panel  hail 
produced  the  weapon  which  his  countrymen,  as  we  are 
informed,  generally  carry  about  their  persons,  and  the 
same  unhappy  circumstance  had  ensued  which  you  have 
heard  detailed  in  evidence,  I could  not  in  my  conscience 
have  asked  from  you  a verdict  of  murder.  The  prison- 
er’s personal  defence  might  indeed,  even  in  that  case, 
have  gone  more  or  less  beyond  the  boundary  of  the 
Moderamen  inculpated  tuteled , spoken  of  by  lawyers,  but 
the  punishment  incurred  would  have  been  that  of  man- 
slaughter, not  of  murder.  I beg  leave  to  add,  that  I 
should  have  thought  this  milder  species  of  charge  was  de- 
manded in  the  case  supposed,  notwithstanding  the  statute 
of  James  I.  cap.  8.  which  takes  the  case  of  slaughter  by 
stabbing  with  a short  weapon,  even  without  malice  pre- 
pense, out  of  the  benefit  of  clergy.  For  this  statute  of 
stabbing,  as  it  is  termed,  arose  out  of  a temporary  cause  ; 
and  as  t he  real  guilt  is  the  same,  whether  the  slaughter 
be  committed  by  the  dagger,  or  by  sword  or  pistol,  the 
benignity  of  the  modem  law  places  them  all  on  the  same 
or  nearly  the  same  footing. 

“ But,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  the  pinch  of  the  case 
lies  in  the  interval  of  two  hours  interposed  betwixt  the 


196  CHRONICLES  OF 

reception  of  the  injury  and  the  fatal  retaliation.  In  the 
heat  oi  affray  and  chaude'melee , law,  compassionating  the 
infirmities  of  humanity,  makes  allowance  for  the  passions 
which  rule  such  a stormy  moment — for  the  sense  of  pres- 
ent pain,  for  the  apprehension  of  further  injury,  for  the 
difficulty  of  ascertaining  with  due  accuracy  the  precise 
degree  of  violence  which  is  necessary  to  protect  the  per- 
son of  the  individual,  without  annoying  or  injuring  the 
assailant  more  than  is  absolutely  necessary.  But  the 
time  necessary  to  walk  twelve  miles,  however  speedily 
performed,  was  an  interval  sufficient  for  the  prisoner  to 
have  recollected  himself ; and  the  violence  with  which 
he  carried  his  purpose  into  effect,  with  so  many  circum- 
stances of  deliberate  determination,  could  neither  be  in- 
duced by  the  passion  of  anger,  nor  that  of  fear.  It  was 
the  purpose  and  the  act  of  predetermined  revenge,  for 
which  law  neither  can,  will,  nor  ought  to  have  sympathy 
or  allowance. 

“ It  is  true,  we  may  repeat  to  ourselves,  in  alleviation 
of  this  poor  man’s  unhappy  action,  that  his  case  is  a very 
peculiar  one.  The  country  which  he  inhabits  was,  in  the 
days  of  many  now  alive,  inaccessible  to  the  laws,  not  only 
of  England,  which  have  not  even  yet  penetrated  thither, 
but  to  those  to  which  our  neighbours  of  Scotland  are 
subjected,  and  which  must  be  supposed  to  be,  anc!  no 
doubt  actually  are,  founded  upon  the  general  principles  of 
justice  and  equity  which  pervade  every  civilized  country. 
Amongst  their  mountains,  as  among  the  North  American 
Indians,  the  various  tribes  were  wont  to  make  war  upon 
each  other,  so  that  each  man  was  obliged  to  go  armed  for 
his  own  protection,  and  for  the  offence  of  his  neighbour. 
These  men,  from  the  ideas  which  they  entertained  of 
their  own  descent  and  of  their  own  consequence,  regard- 
ed themselves  as  so  many  cavaliers  or  menrat-arms,  rath- 
er than  as  the  peasantry  of  a peaceful  country.  Those 
laws  of  the  ring,  as  my  brother  terms  them,  were  un- 
known to  the  race  of  warlike  mountaineers  ; that  decision 
of  quarrels  by  no  other  weapons  than  thoSe  which  nature 
has  given  every  man,  must  to  them  have  seemed  as  vulgar 


TIIE  CAXONGATE. 


197 


and  as  preposterous  as  to  the  Noblesse  of  France.  Re- 
venge, on  the  other  hand,  must  have  been  as  familiar  to 
their  habits  of  society  as  to  those  of  the  Cherokees  or 
Mohawks.  It  is,  indeed,  as  described  by  Bacon,  at  bot- 
tom a kind  of  wild  untutored  justice  ; for  the  fear  of 
retaliation  must  withhold  the  hands  of  the  oppressor 
where  there  is  no  regular  law  to  check  daring  violence. 
But  though  all  this  may  be  granted,  and  though  we  may 
allow  that,  such  having  been  the  case  of  the  Highlands  in 
the  days  of  the  prisoner’s  fathers,  many  of  the  opinions 
and  sentiments  must  still  continue  to  influence  the  present 
generation,  it  cannot,  and  ought  not,  even  in  this  most 
painful  case,  to  alter  the  administration  of  the  law7,  either 
in  your  hands,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  or  in  mine.  The 
first  object  of  civilization  is  to  place  the  general  protec- 
tion of  the  law,  equally  administered,  in  the  room  of  that 
wild  justice,  which  every  man  cut  and  carved  for  himself, 
according  to  the  length  of  his  sword  and  the  strength  of 
his  arm.  The  law  says  to  the  subjects,  with  a voice  only 
inferior  to  that  of  the  Deity,  4 Vengeance  is  mine.’  The 
instant  that  there  is  time  for  passion  to  cool,  and  reason 
to  interpose,  an  injured  party  must  become  aware,  that 
the  law  assumes  the  exclusive  cognizance  of  the  right 
and  wrong  betwixt  the  parties,  and  opposes  her  inviolable 
buckler  to  every  attempt  of  the  private  party  to  right 
himself.  I repeat,  that  this  unhappy  man  ought  personal- 
ly to  be  the  object  rather  of  our  pity  than  our  abhorrence, 
for  he  failed  in  his  ignorance,  and  from  mistaken  notions 
of  honour.  But  his  crime  is  not  the  less  that  of  murder, 
gentlemen,  and,  in  your  high  and  important  office,  it  is 
your  duty  so  to  find.  Englishmen  have  their  angry  pas- 
sions as  well  as  Scots;  and  should  this  man’s  action  re- 
main unpunished,  you  may  unsheath,  under  various  pre- 
tences, a thousand  daggers  betwixt  the  Land’s-end  and 
the  Orkneys.” 

The  venerable  Judge  thus  ended  what,  to  judge  by  his 
apparent  emotion,  and  by  the  tears  which  filled  his  eyes, 
17*  VOL.  i. 


198 


CHROxNICLES  OF 


was  really  a painful  task.  The  jury,  according  to  his 
instructions,  brought  in  a verdict  of  Guilty  ; and  Robin 
Oig  M‘Combich,  alias  M‘Gregor,  was  sentenced  to  death, 
and  left  for  execution,  which  took  place  accordingly.  He 
met  his  fate  with  great  firmness,  and  acknowledged  the 
justice  of  his  sentence.  But  he  repelled  indignantly  the 
observations  of  those  who  accused  him  of  attacking  an 
unarmed  man.  “ I give  a life  for  the  life  I took,”  he 
said,  “ and  what  can  I do  more  VJ 


END  OF  VOLUME  I. 


4 


